


you take two steps back

by gayforchae



Series: distance [2]
Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Deepthroating, Depression, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Pining, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slut Shaming, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-07-11 15:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforchae/pseuds/gayforchae
Summary: steph's held on all these years. lebron has not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeeeEEE book two!!  
> I only have one chapter for this book actually finished as of right now (and it's the one I'm posting) so updates may be kinda slow but I will try to get chapters out quickly!  
> also this is kind of filler just for some context and it takes place on Steph's birthday because my birthday was yesterday so I'm having birthday feels lmao  
> enjoy!!
> 
> also for anyone who is seeing this book for the first time, this is the second book in my series and I suggest reading book 1, one step forward, first just to understand everything^^ thank you!

“Klay, what the fuck is that?”

Steph stared incredulously at the gigantic bouncy castle sitting in his backyard, Klay jumping around inside of it and letting out excited shouts every time he bounced up.

“It’s your birthday present!” the man yelled back, bending his knees on a jump and managing to just barely land a backflip. “Get in, I paid good money for this thing!”

“Christ, be fucking careful,” Steph mumbled as he walked over to the gigantic monstrosity. “Don’t fuckin’ break your neck right before the fuckin’ playoffs, man.” He touched the side of one of the castle’s towers, hand sinking into the material and practically getting swallowed as soon as he put any pressure on it. Part of him, the childish part, definitely wanted to get in and jump around like he was twelve, but the other part, the logical part, was desperately begging him to use reason and not go anywhere near the deathtrap. Having two relatively muscular adult men, both over six feet tall, in a bouncy house meant for five-year-old kids was a massive accident waiting to happen.

Klay didn’t seem to listen to Steph’s nervous mutterings, bending his legs to get even more height on his next bounce and did another flip as he went flying in the air. “Come on, you fuckin’ coward! I know you want to!” He laughed teasingly at Steph, who flushed red at the little dig at his nerves. “We only got this ‘till your people come and I’m getting my fuckin’ money’s worth outta it. Get in!”

Steph was beginning to regret inviting Klay to his party, and was especially regretting telling the man he could come early to help set up. He should’ve guessed that something like this was the only reason Klay would even offer to help, because, despite how much Steph loved his best friend, Klay was one of the laziest people he’d ever met when it came to anything non-sports related.

Despite that, though, Steph knew he wouldn’t replace Klay for a single thing in the world. He still thought back to how they met two weeks after the Warriors drafted Klay, back when they were still considered a “shit team” that couldn’t even keep up winning records. Klay had come into the gym to practice shooting while Steph was doing a one-on-one with Monta, and when they’d all gotten worn out from practicing Monta went home while Steph took Klay out for drinks.

( _“I promise you; I know_ all _the good bars around here,” he said with surprising confidence considering he really didn’t go out very often, walking backwards through the doors to keep making eye contact with an awkward-but-amused Klay. “You’re damn lucky you got stuck with me, I’ll make sure you know the ins and outs of this city in only a week. No doubt.”_

 _He then slammed into another door behind him, one he’d somehow forgotten was there, and nearly fell forwards into Klay’s chest. “So,” the other man said, laughing now as he grabbed Steph’s arm to help him regain his footing. “You know the city, but you don’t know your own gym?”_ )

He smiled fondly at the memory, only broken out of his thoughts by a sudden scream. He looked towards the bouncy castle in alarm, only to see Klay on his back inside laughing uncontrollably. “Fuck, what the fuck did you do?” he asked, running over to the side and grabbing onto the screened in window of the castle to look in at Klay.

“I, I fuckin’…I went to do a flip and I just, ah, fuck, I nearly fell the fuck outta the castle,” Klay said in between laughter and gasps, holding his stomach like it hurt. “God, I know that coulda been bad, but I’m not dead and _fuck_ it was so funny…” He opened his eyes to look at Steph, a smile still on his face and some tears coming out of his eyes from laughing so hard. Steph couldn’t help but smile at the other man, his happiness and laughter too contagious, and laughed a bit at the way his friend looked.

Steph probably would’ve gotten in the castle after that had it not been for his watch beeping, reminding him that he had only an hour left to set up for the party. It was still early in the day, but they had a game at Oracle that night against the Pelicans, so the party was just supposed to be a quick little thing with Klay and his family that would hopefully get the two of them hyped up for the game. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, looking back up at Klay a little disappointed that he’d waited too long to get into the castle. “We gotta get ready,” he said, and Klay groaned in response as he pushed himself off the unstable floor.

“We’re puttin’ it back up when everyone leaves. I _gotta_ perfect my triple backflip blitz,” Klay said, somehow maintaining a straight face and keeping a serious tone. Steph laughed. “You can hardly land a normal backflip,” he pointed out, walking over to where the castle was plugged in and taking the plug out as Klay hopped through the gates. The bouncy castle began to fall in response, almost as if an invasion had finally succeeded and the king had been ousted from his throne.

The king imagery brought Steph’s mind to LeBron, though he’d never admit it. The older man hadn’t spoken to him all that much since his college days, never explicitly telling Steph it was a one-time thing but heavily implying it based on how he treated Steph as nothing more than some little rookie pest to get rid of during games and never acknowledging what happened. To be fair, though, Steph hadn’t brought it up either – but that was just because he could hardly find it in him to speak properly when around the other man.

This year, however, that would finally change.

The Warriors had beaten the Cavaliers in the Finals last season, earning Steph his first ring and his first regular season MVP award, but he still hadn’t gotten LeBron to do much more than give him a light congratulations when they shook hands after the game, not even a text afterwards. But this season, his Warriors were on a run that was nothing short of historic – they were trying to break the record for most wins in a single regular season. So far, it had been going pretty well, and they’d held up a record of 60 wins to only 6 losses going into that night’s game, hoping tonight would make it 61 wins.

Steph could already imagine himself in the Finals beating LeBron for the second year in a row, ousting the king from his throne and taking it for himself. He’d tell LeBron that it was just like it was back at Davidson, and he deserved a reward, and LeBron would nod in agreement, showering him with praise and giving him everything he could have possibly wanted and more.

He smiled at the thought. Beating one of the greatest to ever play along with having a record like his definitely didn’t sound too bad. And finally proving himself to the older man, and getting what he’d gotten so many years ago again…that would be a bonus.

Part of him definitely thought that whatever long-standing infatuation he had with the man was stupid, because it had been years and they’d hardly even talked, but he couldn’t help it. He could hardly think about his Davidson games anymore without his mind going back to that one specific game and what had happened afterwards. Frankly, he didn’t think he could ever not get distracted when thinking about those games anymore, because that experience was just…something else.

“Steph, you said we had an hour, and I’m here actually doing shit for once meanwhile you’ve been staring into space for, like, five goddamn minutes. Help me out here.”

Steph jumped at Klay’s mildly irritated voice. “Shit, sorry,” he mumbled, walking over to his shed and taking out his keys to bring out a foldable table.

Klay followed behind him, grabbing the other end of the table after watching Steph struggle to drag it across the grass for a few seconds. “What’re you gettin’ all spaced out for?” he asked, lifting the other side with ease. Steph felt his own shoulders sink with relief at the decrease in weight he was carrying. “You hung up on somethin’? Some _one?_ ” Klay wiggled his eyebrows and gave his best shit-eating grin.

Steph rolled his eyes. “Fuck off,” he mumbled, yanking on the table a little harder to direct Klay to where he wanted to put it. “Just…thinkin’.”

He’d come out to Klay a year ago, when both of them were definitely too drunk for their own good, and his sleazy brain had, at the time, thought nothing of it until after he said it. Then he’d sobered up surprisingly fast, cheeks burning red as he took another sip of his drink. Klay hadn’t minded, though, instead slinging an arm around Steph’s shoulders and telling him his attraction wasn’t gonna make a difference in their friendship. Then, being the emotional drunk he was, he cried on Steph’s shoulder telling him how much he appreciated him (in the straightest way possible, of course).

Despite the odd way in which Klay’s acceptance had been shown, Steph definitely appreciated the man for sticking with him. He was the only guy on the team he was out to as of right now, and it would probably stay that way for a while. Steph hadn’t yet started trusting any of the other guys to accept him or not spill his secret to anyone else.

“That guy from college again?”

Steph’s ears went red and his face immediately got hot with embarrassment. He nearly dropped the table onto the ground, fumbling with the edges he was holding in surprise. He never named LeBron directly, because who was he to out someone else without consent, but he’d talked about their little “experience” before to Klay in the hopes that maybe the other man could help him stop being so hung up on it. Klay laughed at Steph’s reaction, his own grip on the table tightening in case Steph let go. “I guess I hit the nail on the head?”

“Shut up,” Steph mumbled, avoiding Klay’s eyes. “Move back, we can put this down here.” He started pushing against his end of the table in order to push Klay, but the other man wouldn’t budge. “Don’t change the subject,” he said teasingly, and Steph finally looked up to glare at him. Klay’s lips were upturned in a mocking smile, his eyes challenging Steph to back off.

His pride would never let him do that, of course, and Steph grunted out “I got somethin’ to prove," as a response with his eyes narrowed in irritation at the other man. Then, because he actually _did_ want to move the table back a little - "Now move the fuck back.”

Finally, Klay listened, backing up a few steps until Steph pulled slightly on the table in his own direction to get him to stop. They pulled the legs out beneath it and gently set it down on the grass. Steph let his shoulders loosen up for a second, closing his eyes to think of what else they’d need set up. Klay’s voice, which still sounded mildly amused, distracted him from his thoughts before he could concentrate well enough to think of another item to grab. “What do ya need to prove? They on the Pels or somethin’? Holy shit, is it fuckin’ AD?”

“No, oh my _god,_ no,” Steph immediately responded, rushing out the words just to make it clear that he was not, and never would be, fucking Anthony Davis. “He’s not on the Pels, he’s just…I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

Luckily, Klay knew how to take a hint (whether or not he actually listened was its own issue). He shrugged, walking over to the stack of foldable chairs against the shed. “A’ight, man, I get it,” he said as he picked up two chairs per hand, somewhat penguin-waddling back to the table to set them up. “You tell me when you can. Or not at all. I’m cool.”

Steph let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He smiled gratefully at Klay, despite the latter’s back being turned, and walked over to the shed to grab a couple chairs himself.

Later that day, as Steph and Klay were cleaning up the trash his family (mostly Seth, who had always lived like, in Steph's words, "a fucking slob") had left on the ground after the party, Steph’s phone buzzed next to him on the table. He typed in his passcode, assuming it was just an outside family member sending a happy birthday text like they usually did, and opened the text before reading it.

His heart began pounding nearly out of his chest as he read the contact name, though, and his cheeks burnt red as he read out the text from, of course, none other than Lebron James.

_happy birthday, baby._

Maybe this year actually _would_ be different.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its taco tuesday my children  
> so you get another update! i finally got off my ass to do this <3  
> there may be a slight change of plans and this may become a four book series instead of three but i'm not sure yet. it depends on what i do with this book. but i shall let you guys know asap! thank you for reading <3

There was nothing Steph hated more than injuries.

He didn’t have to worry much about his team, because they were still spectacular without him and were able to knock the Rockets out of the Playoffs in the first round with relative ease, but he hated not being able to play. He, like the majority of players in the league, loved playing more than anything, so to be relegated to doing nothing but sitting down and watching his own team from the sidelines without being allowed to go on the court ready to play was never a fun experience.

And then he still wasn’t allowed to play against the Blazers until the last game of that series, which only made him even _more_ depressed. He wanted to win and get his second ring, and solidify this season as the best season the Warriors ever had – and maybe even the best season _any_ team had ever had – but he wanted to do that by actually _playing._ It felt like he was just a spectator on the side, getting credited for everything his team did despite him not helping at all.

But now he was finally playing again. His knee still ached when he strained or used it too much, and his balance needed some extra work, but he was on the court playing. He’d decided that he could still prove he deserved the ring, still deserved credit for these Playoff wins, because now he could actually _play_ and show off his skills. _Steph Curry doesn’t choke in the Playoffs._

The problem now, though, was the Thunder.

Tonight was game seven. The Warriors had gone in being down 3-1, but managed to make a miraculous comeback and forced a game seven in order to stay in it. This game was a must-win, or they were out of the Playoffs and their amazing season would come to a disappointing end.

Steph wrung his hands together anxiously while one of the team’s doctors did some last-minute checkups on his knee to see how well his recovery was going and make sure that his playing in this series wasn’t worsening the injury. He’d had checkups daily, with Kerr telling him that they were required in order to make sure he was perfectly fit to play and was recovering as fast as possible. Steph knew there was almost zero chance he was going to be told he couldn’t play in tonight’s game, but that didn’t stop him from being incredibly nervous. He felt like any minute, the doctor would look up at him with pity in his eyes and go, “sorry…” He didn’t know if he would even be able to survive hearing that.

“Ow, fuck,” he mumbled once offhandedly, feeling a little twinge of pain run up the upper half of his leg when the doctor grabbed a particularly sensitive spot of his knee. “That’s…that’s the spot right there.” He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, desperately hoping he’d be told it was just minor pain and he could still play.

The doctor looked up at him, his nametag, which had _Jason_ engraved on it, glinting under the room’s hanging light right into Steph’s eye. He blinked a few times, lifting a hand to shield his eye from the sudden bright light, and Jason quickly took notice and adjusted the tag so it wouldn’t reflect the light anymore. “Sorry,” he said, gesturing to the nametag with an awkward but apologetic smile. Steph shook his head, waving a hand to wordlessly say it was no big deal. Jason continued. “Well, it’s not _amazing._ Obviously just letting it rest and recover without any strain would be the best option, but we both know that ain’t happening.” Then he winked at Steph, sending a surprised bit of color to the latter’s cheeks. “’Sides, I got money on you guys anyway, so I wanna see you out there. It’s good enough for you to play on.”

Steph felt a smile that nearly reached his ears form across his lips, and he would’ve jumped out of his seat in joy if Jason’s hands weren’t wrapped around his knee still. “Fuck, thank you,” he said, eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll get you that money,” he promised, sudden confidence running through him like shockwaves of lightning through his body.

Jason gave him a grin. “You better,” he said, finally letting go of Steph’s knee. Steph moved it up and down a bit, making sure for himself that it definitely still worked, before standing up to beam down at Jason, who was still kneeling on the floor. “I’ll see you tonight,” Jason told him, putting a hand down on the floor to balance himself as he stood up himself.

“Yep, and it won’t be the last time. Trust me,” Steph assured him, patting his chest twice confidently. “See you!” he said, spinning on his heel while grabbing his bag from off the ground and practically skipping out of the office in happiness.

His phone buzzed twice in his pocket, and he could hear Klay’s text tone faintly through the fabric as he slid into the driver’s seat of his Porsche. Rolling his eyes, he took out his phone to read off whatever Klay was probably spamming him about.

_arEYOU DONE_   
_IS IT OK_   
_ARE U DYINJG IM FREAKIGN OUT_   
_FUCKIN REPLY U ASS I MUST KNOW_

Steph stifled a laugh at the panicked texts his friend had sent, apparently too nervous to even correct any of the typos, and began typing out his own response.

_lmao its fine i can play, we all good_

Klay, who apparently was watching his phone religiously for Steph’s reply, wasted no time in responding.

_THANK GOD_   
_WE GOIN TO THE FINALS BABYYYYY_   
_GONNA REPEAT LAST YEAR BUT THIS TIME BETTER BC WE BE GODS_

Steph knew being overconfident would definitely be what could cost them another chip, but he didn’t have it in him to chastise Klay. Obviously the whole team was just excited, and he himself had just basically told their team’s doctor that they were going to the Finals anyway, so he didn’t have much room to talk even if he wanted to.

He turned his phone off, tossing it onto the passenger seat and starting his car. Tonight wouldn’t be the end of their season. They hadn’t worked this hard, stayed in it until the end when they could’ve just given up after going down 3-1, just to lose like this. They _had_ to win tonight.

* * *

Klay nearly yanked Steph’s arm out of its socket as he dragged him out of the building immediately following their postgame interviews and team photos with the Conference Finals trophy, demanding they celebrate their second Finals trip in a row “properly.” They’d run off the court screaming and cheering like they’d just won the actual championship, so happy they’d been able to pull off their amazing comeback and come out on top.

Steph sat in the passenger seat of Klay’s car while the other man drove, massaging his slightly sore knee. “We should go to that bar I showed you when you first came here, like as a throwback,” he recommended, reaching a hand out to lower the volume on the radio so their conversations could actually be audible. Besides, Klay had some random sex music station on, and Steph didn’t need “Fuck Away The Pain” blasting out the windows for all of Oakland to hear.

Klay nodded, not taking his eyes off the road. “You should walk into a door again to make it _really_ special,” he said, the teasing tone of his voice unmistakable. Steph scoffed in response, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You ever gonna let me live that down?” He asked, feigning annoyance as Klay glanced over for a second and began laughing at the pout on his face.

Klay thought for a second, before looking back at Steph while they waited at a red light. “I’ll stop when you top it,” he finally decided. The way he spoke, he made it sound like it was impossible to ever do something worse – but Steph had been in the league too long, had experienced too much to think that way, because he knew he could _easily_ top that. That didn’t mean he wanted to, of course, and he was completely fine with his worst moment in Klay’s mind being that one time when he walked into a door because he was being dumb and wasn’t paying attention.

As they neared their destination, Steph pointed over at an open spot on the side of the road. “Park there, the lot’s always full,” he said, and Klay wordlessly did as he was told, because he remembered the struggle he’d endured every time he tried to park in that mess of a lot – there was a gym next door, and their customers weren’t supposed to use the lot, but that never stopped them, and the bar’s owner didn’t care enough to do anything about it. So, the customers freely parked there, taking up spots for hours while they worked out and pissed off any bar customer who thought they could snag a spot.

After Klay’d parked, they hopped out of the car and walked over to the bar doors, still an excited bounce in their steps as their emotional high from the game seven win hadn’t worn off yet. Steph pushed open the doors, grinning towards the bartenders who immediately recognized them as they walked in. Klay pushed past him slightly, a wide grin on his face. “Your future champions have returned!” he yelled, and in return he was given a chorus of cheers and hollers from the patrons who had been watching the game from the bar’s TVs.

Steph laughed and shook his head, elbowing Klay lightly. “Don’t get cocky,” he said, but his attempt to make sure his teammate didn’t get too overconfident was halfhearted at best, because he’d honestly believed the same thing at least a little bit. He then walked over to a barstool, sitting down and spinning around on it once in his excited state.

A familiar bartender walked over to him, smiling wide as he rested his elbows on the counter and placed his chin down on his hands. “Hey, Henry,” Steph greeted, the man’s smile contagious enough for his own to widen.

“Hey, Curry! Saw your game,” Henry replied, already gathering ingredients to fix up Steph’s regular drink (a margarita, because, though he wouldn’t admit it, he couldn’t handle anything even slightly more bitter) in front of him. “Can’t wait to start braggin’ about how we have yet another championship here from you guys.”

Steph rested his head on his hands on the counter, watching amusedly as Henry mixed the liquids together. “Everyone’s convinced already, eh?” he mused, glancing over to Klay, who was already talking up a skinny brunette on the other side of the bar. She was laughing at something he’d said, dimples appearing in both of her cheeks as she brought one hand up to cover her mouth and another to Klay’s waist. “Hopefully the confidence does us good.”

For a split second, Steph felt oddly jealous watching Klay with the girl – he himself didn’t like women romantically, so he didn’t want the same action Klay was getting, but seeing how he was getting touched and felt up all over made Steph want…something. He sucked on the inside of his cheek idly, trying to remember the last time he’d even had sex.

After he and LeBron’s college encounter, he’d abstained for a pretty long time, having been in some weird mindset in which he thought he wasn’t allowed to “cheat” – even though they’d never established any sort of relationship, and since then LeBron hadn’t even spared him a single text. But after Steph’s first game in the NBA against LeBron’s Cavaliers, when the man _still_ hadn’t spoken to him, he’d been more than a little ticked off, and had called up one of his old college friends who he’d hooked up with before and knew was in the area and asked if they could hang out.

He’d decided that night that he was in no way bound by being fucked by LeBron on _one_ occasion and then promptly ditched, although he really hadn’t gone out with the intentions of hooking up much afterwards. He’d had some flings here and there but nothing ever got past the one night and he more often than not turned anyone who was possibly interested down, claiming he wasn’t in the mood.

He vaguely remembered hooking up with some guy at a bar while he was drunk a few months ago, only really going for it because the other man had been hinting interest first and Steph’s drunken mind was enjoying the attention. Steph couldn’t think of any more recent encounters, though, and was beginning to realize that deprivation was probably why he was craving it so much now.

“Your margarita’s been ready for two minutes, you gonna take a sip?”

Steph jumped at Henry’s slightly concerned voice and nodded wordlessly, grabbing the cup and taking a long swig from it. The sweet taste flooded his senses and he could feel his body get just a little bit lighter, and as soon as the liquid was gone from his mouth he could feel his taste buds screaming for more.

Within minutes he’d already almost finished the glass, feeling more than a little tipsy as he continued watching Klay, who was now on the dance floor with the girl from earlier, grinding against her with a smug smile on his face. At one point he’d even looked back at Steph and had the nerve to wink, which earned him an immediate middle finger.

Steph, despite feeling buzzed from his drink, still didn’t feel in much of a mood to go find a guy to hook up with, and instead decided to just sit in his bar chair scrolling through his Instagram for anything interesting. Most photos on his recently posted feed were from his family – all celebrating his second trip to the Finals in a row, of course – but a few were from the other players he followed. Some were just casual posts about their own families, since all but two teams were now out of championship contention and therefore most players were already out vacationing, or congratulatory posts to his team, but one post in particular stood out to Steph like a sore thumb.

LeBron had posted a picture of a hotel at night, dated only minutes ago, with the location tagged as Oakland. The caption simply read “tonight’s housing.” Steph tapped the location, and his eyes widened as he realized that the hotel was only five minutes from the bar he was at. Was LeBron in Oakland already?

The Cavaliers had earned their own spot in the Finals for a second year in a row, beating the Raptors in six games. That meant that they’d gotten a few extra days of rest that the Warriors wouldn’t be getting – although frankly, Steph didn’t know if that was really a bad thing. After all, they were now going into the Finals fresh off their three-game win streak, hyped up because of their huge comeback. The Cavaliers having extra days off could mean they’d lose their previous game hotness, and that would work well in the Warriors’ favor.

But, considering they had extra time before needing to come to Oakland, it didn’t make much sense for LeBron to be there already. Steph assumed he’d be travelling with his team, and besides, Oakland wasn’t usually a good place to just “hang out” before a big event. All this in mind, Steph couldn’t wrap his head around why LeBron could possibly be in town already.

As if he’d been reading his thoughts and was perfectly timing everything, Steph felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and turned it on to not even be surprised seeing LeBron’s contact name show up above a text message.

_hey, u busy tonight?_

Steph almost replied “fuck you, I’m celebrating,” because this _was_ supposed to be his celebratory night for winning the conference finals again. LeBron didn’t have any right to intrude on it, and Steph shouldn’t give him the attention – especially after being ignored since fucking _college_ until now. Why the hell was LeBron even giving him attention now, anyway? Did he do “good enough” for the King’s expectations? It wasn’t like he cared, anyway.

And yet despite the convincing argument his mind was making, Steph found himself typing out a very different reply from the one he’d wanted to send, and before he could even change his mind, he’d pressed the send button.

_i mean im out rn but do u need something?_

Sucking a cheek in to chew on it, Steph waited anxiously for a reply while mentally slamming his head on the bar counter. The man had ignored him for years, barely bothering to even make small talk and acting like their little secret just didn’t exist at all, and now, on a night when Steph was definitely supposed to be out celebrating with his team and not listening to his fucking competitor of all people, he was suddenly hitting him up? Steph had half the mind to leave LeBron’s next text on read and block his number. That’d get him pissed off, for sure, but god, would it be worth it for all the shit he made Steph deal with.

Still, he found himself immediately grabbing his phone at the next buzz to eagerly check the reply.

_im in town at a hotel. wanna stop by n hang? if u aint busy w ur boys ofc_

At this point, Steph had accepted that he was a complete idiot and there was no way he could possibly force himself to not go, because despite every bit of logic inside of his head explaining to him in full detail why replying in the first place was a bad idea, it wasn’t like he’d listened, and he had no chance of listening now.

Before he could text again, though, he found himself looking back over at Klay. He didn’t want to ditch his best friend mid-celebration, and even if he _did_ want to it wasn’t like he had any viable excuse. Klay and him had both made sure they would be free tonight either to celebrate together or sit together in Steph’s living room watching sad movies, had they lost. Part of Steph’s motivation for winning tonight was avoiding the latter option – from his personal experience, Klay was _horrible_ when it came to watching movies. He didn’t know how to shut his damn mouth, and Steph was not going to deal with an entire night of that when he would already be upset.

Apparently Klay had his own plans, though, and was walking towards Steph with the brunette and a newfound blonde girl in tow. Steph could see from the way he wobbled a little that Klay was definitely at least a little drunker than he was, and stood up to put his hands out and stop the man before he fell over as he reached Steph’s stool. “Hey, you good?” he asked cautiously, eyeing the two girls, who were staring at him almost lustfully. He desperately hoped Klay wasn’t drunk enough to forget his sexuality and ask him to join in on…whatever he probably planned on doing with the girls.

“Yeah, I’m great,” Klay replied, sounding a lot more sober than Steph had expected. “I think I’m going to head out, though.” He glanced back at the two girls before looking back to Steph and wriggling his eyebrows, and Steph resisted the urge to scoff. “You got a ride back home?”

Steph nodded his head before he knew what he was doing. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said, waving Klay off. “Go have your fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Klay didn’t take much time after that, giving Steph a goodbye shoulder-punch and rushing out with the girl’s he’d picked up. Steph watched him go, making sure he didn’t fall face first at the door of the bar, and when he was sure the man was gone and _not_ passed out in the bar he turned back to his phone to send a reply.

_im down long as ur cool w it. i can be there in 5._

LeBron sent a thumbs up emoji only seconds later, and Steph almost laughed. Who would’ve thought the King used emojis in actual conversation? Steph himself only used them ironically, and he jokingly always shamed Klay for using them legitimately in their texts, but it wasn’t like he had a legitimate problem with people who used them. He just didn’t take LeBron James of all people as one of those kinds of people.

He grabbed his bag and slung one strap over his shoulder, finishing up the last of his drink before placing the glass back down on the counter just loud enough to catch Henry’s attention. The bartender grinned at him, easily picking up on the cues that Steph was leaving, and put two fingers up to his forehead to do a sailor’s goodbye salute. Steph laughed at the gesture and returned it before waving normally and turning towards the door, strutting out with confidence in part from the little bit of alcohol and from his underlying excitement as he pushed through the doors. He knew where the hotel was – he remembered Seth renting a room out there once, despite Steph’s offer for him to stay at his house (Seth had stated that he “needed to prove he was an independent adult,” but ended up calling Steph within twenty minutes of being left alone saying he didn’t know where to eat).

He pulled the thin jacket he had on over himself a little tighter as a surprisingly cool gust of wind blew at him, and stared up at the bright streetlights hanging over passing cars as he began his walk to LeBron’s apartment. The light reflected off each car, making the vehicles sparkle as they flew past him, rushing to wherever they needed to be in the dark of night. He could see the stars out above him, the night sky already full of them – it was very late, after all.

Something in him told him that tonight would finally change everything. He didn’t know if he should be afraid – he wasn’t afraid, though, even if that was the case – or excited, but he simply had a feeling everything would be different following tonight.

There was a slight bounce of anticipation in his next step. He was ready for whatever the night would throw at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihi lol i was writing a lot this week so i got this one out earlier than i thought i would have it out!!
> 
> i played basketball in my driveway with my friends two days ago n within about 2 minutes it turned into one friend and i standing as far away from the net as we could and yeeting the ball with all our might in a desperate attempt at getting it in over and over again with little to no success  
> he kept saying “im steph curry” when he shot bc steph is one of the only players he knows (and he’s also who we both main in 2k lmao) and i was like fuck it lol so i did that once and somehow the ball actually went the fuck in?? so basically i channeled my inner steph and became a shooting god for a second and im incredibly proud
> 
> i also won at around the world!! retaining my undefeated title <3 that game is my bitch oop
> 
> ok ill shut up i hope y’all enjoy the chapter <333

Steph spent five minutes standing at the door to the hotel room LeBron said he was in, contemplating whether he should just get over his trepidations and knock or if he should run away now. His earlier confidence was completely lost now as he stared up at the door, which loomed over him in a way that it almost seemed as though it was getting larger the longer he stared at it.

Finally, he worked up just enough confidence to lift his hand, bringing it shakily to LeBron’s door. He desperately hoped this wasn’t a practical joke or something, because if some random person opened up their door to Stephen Curry looking like the mess he currently was he might just punch them out of panic and embarrassment. He lightly tapped on the door twice before yanking his hand back down as quick as possible and standing stock still, posture completely straight like a soldier as he waited for – hopefully – LeBron to answer.

The door opened only seconds later, and Steph hadn’t even heard footsteps approaching it. LeBron looked down at him, leaning on the side of the doorway casually, with an amused expression on his face. “Been watchin’ you for, like, ten minutes. Thought you was gonna turn tail ‘n leave outta fear.” Steph felt his face go beet red at the realization that LeBron meant he’d been watching him pace awkwardly outside the door like he was some nervous child.

“I…ah,” he tried to justify himself, but nothing to lessen his embarrassment came to mind. He briefly wondered if there was any possible justification out there, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his head while running his teeth across his lip awkwardly.

LeBron didn’t need any explanation, though, because he backed out of the doorway and gestured for Steph to come in. “S’all good, just a lil’ funny,” he said as Steph walked past, crossing his arms to his chest tightly as if holding himself tight enough would somehow make his body just disappear. He looked around the room curiously, admiring the quality furnishings and décor strewn about. It was extremely clean, and some of the appliances Steph walked by didn’t even look like they’d been touched yet – LeBron must have only arrived a little while ago.

Steph couldn’t help but feel unnerved in the environment. The only times he’d ever been alone with LeBron were when they were outside together back in his college years, and when they’d been in Steph’s dorm room. This, though, was practically the lion’s den, and he was the mouse, trespassing in the beast’s lair. He felt unwelcome, despite being invited in, and couldn’t stop the way his hairs stood up on his arms from nerves.

LeBron either didn’t notice his anxious demeanor or chose to ignore it, falling backwards into the large brown couch cushions and sinking into them slightly. His arms rose up and he placed them across the back of the couch, crossing one leg over the other in a casual fashion and watching Steph with an unreadable expression. “You can sit,” he pointed out, looking over at the other side of the couch pointedly. Steph tensed up for a second at the deep voice, body reacting as though the kind-of-suggestion was a legitimate command, but nodded and sat down on the couch as far away from the other man as he could possibly be.

His cheeks still felt like they were on fire, and the rest of his body was starting to follow suit – he hated the way he could already feel a little tightness in the jeans he’d pulled on after the game, all because of what wasn’t even an actual command. Why was he getting worked up like this? What happened between them was _years_ ago and he shouldn’t even be here right now. LeBron had treated him like a piece of dirt that he’d kicked away as soon as he’d gotten what he wanted, and suddenly now was calling him back? Steph should be the one laughing, should have told him to fuck right off, and he shouldn’t be having a mental panic attack on the man’s fucking couch.

“So we’re facing each other in the Finals again.”

The deep voice that LeBron possessed snapped Steph out of his thoughts and made his overly anxious and tense body jump. He looked over, struggling to keep eye contact with the other man, and forced a nod. “Yeah,” he mumbled, voice small and pathetic even to his own ears. Why the hell was he so afraid? He was a fucking two-time MVP, one being the first unanimously given, and his team had the best regular season record _ever._ Why was he letting the guy who ditched him in college mess with his head so much, without even doing anything?

LeBron brought his long arms back from where they’d been sitting on the back of the couch, leaning forward and resting his head on them as they perched atop his knees. Steph felt even smaller under the man’s looming gaze – he was still the mouse being analyzed by the lion, the beast determining whether or not he would a suitable meal. Steph swallowed hard under the unmoving gaze, eyes begging to look anywhere but the other man’s face, but he wouldn’t let them. “Hope you’re ready to lose twice in a row,” he said, forcing the words to come out louder than before.

The way LeBron’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the nervous dig made Steph’s lips quirk up into an almost-confident grin. Maybe he was being petty, holding a grudge from so long ago, but he didn’t care. He was fine with being petty if it meant he could get under the King’s skin, mess with his head a little before it was time to play.

“You think we’re just gonna hand you a ring on a silver platter or somethin’?” LeBron asked, cocking his head to the side. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, one that sent a single chill down Steph’s spine. “Listen, y’all got away with a freebie last year. My guys were injured ‘n it still took you six games.”

Now it was Steph’s turn to be annoyed. “We’re better than we were last year. I think that’s kinda fuckin’ obvious,” he said, chewing on the inside of his cheek to distract himself from his irritation. “’Sides, your boys bein’ hurt don’t change that we won. It counts just as much as any of your rings.” He himself definitely wanted to prove that they could beat a healthy Cavs team in the Finals, because he wasn’t dumb, nor was he blind – there were plenty of comments online talking about how his ring was a fraud because of who he won it to. But either way, they’d played hard, and that Finals series was tough, and he thought that his team still deserved credit. A win was a win no matter how it was earned.

“If that’s what you wanna think, fine. Just don’t get all cocky,” LeBron said, demeanor changing back to his easy casualness from before. “It’ll be what fucks you over.”

Steph snorted. “You would know.” The snappy remark put LeBron right back into that previous dangerous state, and suddenly Steph felt the most unease he’d ever felt in the other man’s presence. But that same uneasiness only made him even more motivated to keep going, and he wouldn’t stop. “I mean, makin’ fun of a dude’s illness, and then losin’ to his team the next three games. Least I ain’t out here makin’ jokes about your fucked-up team last year.”

This got LeBron to stand up, and in Steph’s mind he was surrounded by a dark aura as he stalked towards him. In comparison, Steph felt tiny – then again, he was the mouse, and not only had he invaded the lion’s den, he’d stolen the lion’s food. The lion was hungry now, maybe ravenous, and he was the only food in sight.

“Pull down your pants.”

Steph felt everything rush downwards inside of him at the deep-voiced command, and, despite wanting to disobey, he followed orders and unzipped his jeans quickly before yanking them and his boxers down with suddenly shaky hands. He swallowed the large amount of saliva accumulating in his mouth, staring up at LeBron from where he was still seated on the couch nervously.

LeBron looked down upon him as though he were a lesser being – a peasant who’d stepped out of line, who the King had to punish accordingly. “You think you’re fuckin’ funny? I invite you here, and you act like a little bitch?” There was fury in his voice, and the anger only seemed to make Steph even more aroused.

But with that arousal came anger of his own, and he scoffed. “You fuckin’ dropped me. Fucked me once then acted like it never fuckin’ happened,” he said through gritted teeth, watching as LeBron began pulling down his own pants and unleashed the still-terrifyingly-huge dick Steph couldn’t forget from years ago. “Then you hit me up, make me come here on _my_ fuckin’ night with my guys? Nah, man, I ain’t gonna show you the same respect everyone else does just for that.” He hated the way his voice shook near the end, revealing just the smallest amount of trepidation in him. It was enough, though, and the corners of LeBron’s mouth turned upwards in a sharklike grin.

Then a large hand clamped down around Steph’s neck, and he let out a cut off gasp of surprise, hands flying up in an unsuccessful attempt at removing the hand. LeBron looked at him like the lion would look at its mouse when it’s finally been caught – ready to tear him apart and eat him, savoring every last bite before moving on to find its next meal. “You say all this shit, but you still showed up, didn’t you?” Steph wouldn’t respond – _couldn’t_ respond, partly because he couldn’t really speak with his air supply cut off, but at the same time because it was true. “You just a slut for my dick, even after all these years, eh?”

Steph let out what was probably a groan, but hardly even came out as sound due to the asphyxiation, from the man’s blunt words, unable to deny them. LeBron grabbed his chin with his free hand and angled his head so they were locking eyes. Steph stared with desperation, vision becoming slightly spotty as the grip tightened. “I know what you came for,” LeBron mumbled, before letting go of Steph altogether and pushing him backwards on the couch as he gasped for air. He yanked off his own shirt and then grabbed Steph’s, pulling it off effortlessly.

He didn’t leave Steph much time to prepare, and within seconds he was lying flat on his stomach as LeBron grabbed a bottle of lubricant from the coffee table in the middle of the room that Steph somehow hadn’t noticed before. He looked up at LeBron, watching the man slather his dick and his fingers in the lube before placing the bottle back on the table and looking back at Steph with an expression that was nothing short of terrifying.

Then, without any hesitation, he stuck his fingers into Steph’s ass, laughing a little at the sharp gasp Steph let out at the way they were so quickly shoved in. “Fuck,” Steph mumbled, shutting his eyes and balling his hands up into fists as LeBron moved his fingers around within his ass, making sure to not miss a single spot. “Fuck, fuck, hurry,” he said, louder this time, and more desperate. He felt a hot pit in his stomach screaming for more, and his dick was as stiff as it could be while smushed between the cushions and his body.

A brief slap on his ass, not too hard but still enough to sting a little. He choked on his next breath. “Shut up,” LeBron muttered, exploring every inch of Steph’s ass expertly. “Don’t tell me how to fuckin’ do my job.”

Steph breathed heavily against the cushions, opening up his hands for a second only to clamp them down tightly on the cushion in front of him to keep himself grounded, because he felt like if he didn’t, he might just fly away and never be seen again. LeBron, despite his annoyance at Steph’s demand, seemed to have agreed with him, because he sped up in his lathering and seconds later was pulling his fingers out.

He leaned down so his mouth was directly next to Steph’s head, and gave him a searing kiss in the area between his neck and his left shoulder, sinking his teeth in enough to make sure there would be a bruise. When he let go, Steph could feel the saliva he left, and shrugged awkwardly as if that would somehow get rid of it. Then LeBron got closer, enough to be level with Steph’s ear. “You ready?” he whispered, and the dark tone of his voice made Steph nearly moan without even needing to be touched.

“Yeah,” he gasped out back, still trying to recover himself from before. He didn’t have time to fully regain his bearings, though, because moments later LeBron leaned back and began pushing himself into Steph. The sheer size made Steph gasp again, this time from some strange mix of pain and pleasure, and he gripped the cushions hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, wondering how something could hurt so much despite all of the lube.

Soon enough LeBron was fully seated in a comfortable position, and he gave Steph’s ass another slap. “You good?” Steph’s eyes were shut as tightly as they could be and he was practically choking on air as he tried to bury his face in the couch, and most certainly was _not_ good, but for some reason he found himself breathing out “yeah, go on,” anyway.

LeBron made an affirmative grunt behind him, and started off at an already fast but even pace. Steph let out a mixture of whines, moans and other lewd sounds that made him red in the face with embarrassment as LeBron kept going. Of all the ways for his second Finals in a row to start, he was probably least expecting it to be this one – being fucked into a couch by LeBron James while making shameful noises, all because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.

“Imagine if your team saw you like this,” LeBron mused at one point, giving a particularly hard thrust. “Matter of fact, imagine if the fuckin’ internet saw you like this. I could expose you as the bitch you are. _My_ bitch.” Steph couldn’t help but imagine it, himself looking at all of the comments shaming him or making fun of him. He saw himself staring at a screen as it scrolled down a never-ending list of jokes, as LeBron stood over him, fucking him senseless just as he was now. Repeating how Steph was just his bitch, how he could have all the titles and it wouldn’t matter, because nothing would ever change what he really was. “You wouldn’t care about them, though, right? Fuck those comments. You’d keep comin’ back for more. Hell, you couldn’t resist me this time, even after all those years. Too hooked on me.”

The words combined with the mental images his brain kept supplying him with was nearly enough to send him over the edge. “Fuck, fuck,” he cursed at the sudden surge of heat downwards in him, finally releasing one of his grips to reach down for his dick. He began stroking rapidly, trying to match pace with LeBron’s thrusts and immediately feeling himself get closer and closer. “Almost,” he mumbled, more telling himself than telling LeBron, but the older man was listening anyway.

A hand suddenly grabbed his own, keeping him from stroking anymore. “Tell me what you are,” LeBron said, leaning down to whisper in Steph’s ear again. “I wanna hear you admit it.”

Steph felt like he was going to burst inside from the buildup and denial, and, despite how much he knew he shouldn’t say anything, he found himself opening his eyes to look up at LeBron with pure desperation in his eyes. LeBron looked down upon him, a King smiling down at the peasant after he’d been tortured, ready to finally admit defeat.

“I’m…I’m your bitch.”

Then LeBron released his hand and shut his own eyes tight, groaning into his own release inside of Steph as the latter quickly followed suit. Steph felt his vision blur completely white as he released, and he let out a moan as everything began to come out.

Blearily, as he came down from the release, he realized he’d just fucked up what was probably an expensive couch beneath him, but he didn’t even care, letting out a “mmph” as LeBron collapsed over him and pushed him further into the mess he’d made. They stayed like that, breathing heavily after the exertion, and Steph briefly wondered if he would even be able to move. He tried to move one leg slowly, but the motion sent a sharp jolt of pain up through his whole body and he immediately gave up on that idea.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but after a while LeBron finally moved and began slowly pulling out of him. Soreness and aches lingered after he was out all the way, and Steph let his eyes flutter shut as exhaustion threatened to claim him. He could feel wetness between his thighs and sighed, nearly laughing at how similar this was to their first time.

“Get up, I gotta clean the couch,” LeBron mumbled, grabbing his pants from off the floor and pulling them on. Steph forced his eyes open to look over at the man, watching him lazily pull the pants up.

He gestured to his legs awkwardly, cheeks burning a little in anticipated embarrassment of what he didn’t want to admit, but had to say anyway. “I…don’t know if I can move.”

This caught LeBron’s attention, and he paused in pulling his clothes back on to look at Steph with an obviously amused expression on his face. He eyed Steph up and down, taking in every inch of his body and not even putting in the slightest bit of effort to hide it. Steph couldn’t help feeling insecure, crossing his arms over his chest awkwardly as LeBron was obviously checking him out. “I did a number on you, eh?” LeBron finally commented, grinning proudly to himself.

He stood up, grabbing both of Steph’s arms in one hand and pulling him to the side. Steph let out a small whine at the immediate flashes of pain riding up his legs and spine at the involuntary movement, instinctively pulling away from LeBron to get the pain to stop. “Relax, I’m just movin’ ya over so I can clean it off,” LeBron mumbled, sounding vaguely annoyed, but he was gentler on his next pull. Soon, Steph was seated uncomfortably, awkwardly shifting around on his ass trying to find the least painful position, watching LeBron wipe off his cum from the seat with a towel that had been folded on the coffee table ( _he was really prepared for this_ , Steph realized).

“Sorry,” he remarked, feeling guilty about what he’d done to the poor couch when it had done nothing to him. “I can help, if you want.” He hadn’t figured out _how_ he was supposed to help yet, still finding it difficult to move, but he could probably lean over and get the remaining cum left on the edges of the seat.

LeBron shook his head, though, continuing to wipe without looking up. “Nah, it’s fine,” he said, waving Steph off with his free hand. “’Sides, you’re the one sleepin’ on it.”

Steph froze up completely, confusion clouding his expression. “…What?” he finally blurted, staring at LeBron with big eyes begging for an answer.

“What, you gonna drive like that?” LeBron gestured to Steph’s still weak legs. Steph’s eyes only got wider as he realized he didn’t even drive there, instead walking from the bar. He could always call for a ride, but he’d still have to make his way back down to the bottom floor, and he was near the top of the building, and he didn’t know if he could stand for that long…

Still, he felt awkward staying in LeBron fucking James’ apartment overnight, sleeping on the man’s couch like he was a jobless uncle who needed a place to crash since he couldn’t afford his own. It was made especially weird considering how they clearly weren’t acting very friendly with each other – they’d fucked, yeah, but that was more anger-induced than anything. Steph still didn’t even know what the relationship they had was, and there was no way in hell he was going to ask LeBron directly.

“Are…are you sure?” he asked, wringing his hands together nervously. He felt like a complete stranger now, which wasn’t really very far off. He didn’t know LeBron very well, nor did the latter really know him. They’d never spoken as friends, instead talking player to player and nothing more – until now, obviously, but still. The closest they’d gotten to normal friendly interaction was sex, and that didn’t really count in Steph’s book.

LeBron nodded in response to the question, suddenly turning to grab Steph’s clothes off the floor and then tossed them to him. Steph blushed at the realization that he’d been sitting naked watching a fully clothed LeBron clean off the couch, embarrassment once again flooding his brain. “If you wanna shower, I can show you where. Might wanna clean yourself up,” LeBron said, giving another grin and affirmative nod towards Steph’s still wet and cum-stricken legs.

Steph grunted in response, cheeks getting even hotter. He tried to push himself off the couch, managing to stand up on wobbly legs while holding his clothes tightly against his chest. _This isn’t going to last long._ Luckily, LeBron seemed to notice, because he stood up fully and began walking towards a door that Steph assumed was a bathroom. He was correct, as LeBron opened the door to reveal a relatively large, comfortable bathroom with a walk-in shower and a large bathtub on opposite sides of the room. “Don’t get it all fuckin’ messy, ‘kay?” LeBron told him as he limped in, smacking his ass a little too hard as he passed by and eliciting a whimper from him in surprise.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, completely humiliated at this point. The door was shut behind him, and, despite knowing LeBron probably wasn’t going to walk in on him, Steph turned around and locked it anyway. He then looked towards the shower and then down at his legs, sucking on his cheek as he stared at the mess he was going to have to get rid of.

* * *

A half hour later found a freshly washed Steph walking back into the living room only to find all but one of the lights off, and a blanket folded neatly atop a pillow on the couch. _LeBron must’ve gone to bed already._ He hobbled his way over to the couch, legs feeling a little better after being surrounded by the warm water in the shower, grabbing the blanket and practically faceplanting into the pillow. He turned onto his back and spread the blanket out over himself, adjusting it to his liking.

The light was still on, but it was dim enough for Steph not to care. If anything, it even helped him, because, though he’d rather lose both of his legs than admit it, he’d always gotten a little anxious being alone in the dark. It certainly didn’t help that he was anxious enough being in LeBron’s place, so the light was pretty much his only comfort.

He was exhausted, and his limbs were still sore, and all he wanted was to fall asleep so he could escape the lingering aches, but he just couldn’t for some reason. His mind kept drifting away to other thoughts, and soon enough he was thinking about quite possibly the last things he needed to be thinking about at this moment in time.

What if he wasn’t good enough? What if LeBron was just using him, and was just going to toss him away after these Finals? He didn’t want their thing to stop, because he’d finally, _finally_ gotten it back, but just because he enjoyed it didn’t mean LeBron did. What if the older man really just didn’t care about him at all more than just thinking of him as some childish rival with a grudge?

He found himself grabbing the bedsheet tightly, hands balling up into fists around it. He bit his lip hard, turning on his side to face the armrest. These insecurities themselves were childish, and he thought they’d gone away back after he’d gotten over LeBron the first time. But now he was back, and _this_ was back, and he couldn’t escape the mess of thoughts his mind kept assaulting him with.

Steph fell asleep that night teary eyed, fighting against attacks from his mind that only seemed to get worse the more he struggled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been done for a couple days now and i just;; completely forgot to publish it bc fun fact im a fucking dumbass
> 
> in my defense tho i recently started my college applications so im kinda stressin but the writing is kinda helping me not die of stress so yay!! also davidson is like my top school pick and im so nervous bc i might do early applications but idk?? like what if they reject me its a really good school and i do not play sports so they arent trying to recruit me and fuCK god but its actually the perfect school????? like ohmygod they require students to take writing which is a hell yeah from me and i can study abroad and the campus is super pretty and i can do band and ksfjksjksk I WANNA FUCKING GO PLEASE ACCEPT ME
> 
> but yeah that's my current life situation lmfao
> 
> anyway this chapter's kinda just filler and a little bit of relationship development for steph/lebron and steph/klay so yee (also no sex but next chapter will either be a game or a fuck or both to make up for it lol) its also kinda rushed and awkward and i didnt edit bc i just kind of can not find it in me to edit right now but i will soon hopefully. i wanted to release this on the only holiday that matters (taco tuesday) with lebrons video but i foRGOT so fuck its coming a day late (sidenote lebron is my internet dad. god i love that man) lmao god this whole thing is mess ill stop typing now, hope you enjoy!! ♡♡♡

Steph woke up to someone lightly shaking his shoulder, whispering words he could hardly understand.

“…ake up. Wake up, Curry.”

He groaned, trying to turn away from the noise, but the hand shaking his shoulder suddenly grabbed it and kept him from moving. “C’mon, I gotta head out soon.” The voice sounded a little annoyed, and Steph felt a bit guilty. He blinked his eyes open a few times, rubbing out the little crystals that had accumulated in the corners when he was asleep. When he looked up, he saw LeBron staring down at him.

“You…okay?” LeBron asked suddenly, looking as close to concerned as Steph had ever seen him before. The man’s shoulders were slightly hunched, and his brow was knitted. His lips were pursed, and his eyes seemed trained on Steph’s cheeks. Confused, Steph brought his hand down from his eye to his cheek, and froze when he felt dry spots. It felt like a tearstain. _Oh, fuck._ He shoved half of his face into the pillow, wiping a little too aggressively at the other half in a desperate attempt to get rid of the stains.

“Yeah, man, I’m all good,” he replied, trying to make the words come out level and not give away his panic. “Just, uh, I move around in my sleep a lot. Marks on my face from that, probably.” It was a shitty excuse, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

Luckily, LeBron seemed to buy it. “O…kay,” he said, sounding slightly hesitant, but he didn’t pry any further. “D’ya wanna eat before you head out?” He gestured to two plates of bacon and eggs that actually didn’t look too horrible sitting on the island in the middle of the kitchen, which was half-connected to the living room. “I…made extra.”

As if on cue, Steph felt his stomach growl, and his mouth watered at the sight of the food. “Uh, sure,” he nodded as he wiped off what he hoped was the last of the stains. “Thanks.” The word felt weird on his tongue. He didn’t think a day would come where he was thanking LeBron for making him breakfast – or offering him extras, but that was still something, at least.

Less than two minutes later found them seated at opposite sides on the island, Steph chewing idly on a piece of slightly overcooked bacon. It needed some more salt, but it wasn’t _too_ bad. He hadn’t taken LeBron for a great cook, having assumed that, with all the money he had, he was having all his meals cooked for him (and probably spoon-fed to him too, if he wanted). Upon glancing at LeBron’s plate, he noticed that they had exactly the same number of pieces of bacon, and their eggs were around the same size. _Did he really make double what he was going to eat on accident?_ Steph decided it was probably just a coincidence, brushing the thought away quickly. LeBron didn’t cook for him.

His phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, and, while picking up a piece of egg with his fork, he took it out to read the text. It was from Klay, of course, and he noticed five drunken texts full of gibberish from around three in the morning in his earlier notifications list. That was Klay’s new record. Last time, he’d only sent three weird keyboard smashes.

_lol i forgot how much hangovers suck, im so fucked for practicing today?? oop_

Then, seconds after Steph had opened the text conversation, another text popped up.

_n sorry for the spam xx_

Steph couldn’t help but smile and shake his head, feeling a bit pitiful for his best friend. Kerr told them they weren’t allowed to go out and get drunk enough for hangovers during playoff season, and whenever someone hadn’t listened and was clearly not acting right during practice Kerr would ream them out. Steph had been subject to it before on multiple occasions (usually with Klay, and usually _because_ of Klay) and frankly, the long berating was arguably worse than the actual hangover. Kerr would spend twenty minutes telling them about how stupid it was to get drunk off their asses during the playoffs, how _this could be what costs you a series,_ and a bunch of other shit that Steph had gotten so bored with he drowned out and forgot. Klay was probably getting that yet again today.

_ha sorry man. gl w coach._

He sent his reply quickly after noticing LeBron having paused in his eating to watch him, and awkwardly shoved a bite of egg into his mouth as he put his phone face down on the island next to him. If there was food in his mouth, he wouldn’t have to speak, and people weren’t supposed to ask him to speak while he was eating because table etiquette. He’d figured that out when he was twelve, trying to avoid talking to his dad about something embarrassing he’d done during a game that day. Just kept shoveling food into his mouth until there was nothing left on his plate within two minutes of him sitting down.eHe

He’d thrown up after that from eating too much too fast, but still. His dad didn’t talk to him about the game, so it was a success.

This time he wasn’t eating quick enough to make himself throw up, because he’d learned his lesson. But he was still eating and making it obvious by lack of eye contact that he didn’t want to talk, which, for most people, was usually enough of a hint for them to back off and not possibly start a conversation.

LeBron was not one of those people.

“Interesting conversation?”

Steph tried to swallow the food quickly, nearly choking on it in the process. “Uh, I guess,” he spluttered out, still feeling uncomfortable in this environment. “It, ah, it was just Klay tellin’ me about his night.” He felt like he suddenly had the social skills of a shy teenage girl in her first year of high school, talking to the seniors.

“Oh, how’d he celebrate? Did ‘e get as good a fuck as you?” Steph’s cheeks burnt, and he started chewing on the inside of his cheek again. LeBron looked smug, as always, obviously proud of his job from last night.

“He got two girls to leave with ‘im after we went to the bar last night,” Steph replied, trying to avoid talking about the second question. “I’on know what he did with them but I’m sure they had a good time.” As soon as he finished his sentence, he shoved another large piece of egg into his mouth, and followed up with a bite of bacon for good measure. _Take the hint._

LeBron did not take the hint.

He hummed instead, and Steph noticed that he was nearly finished with his food. Upon looking down at his own plate, he realized that he was almost done too. _Fuck._ “So,” LeBron started again. “Hope you’re ready for the Finals.”

“We will be,” Steph replied as soon as he’d swallowed the food. “You don’t need to worry about us.” He had a mocking, almost challenging tone in his voice, and he didn’t miss the ever so slight narrowing of LeBron’s eyes that made him feel so powerful.

“Okay,” LeBron settled on saying, sounding like he was backing off. There was a little mocking-ness of his own, but Steph didn’t take the bait and probably get into yet another argument. He had bigger things to worry about than LeBron’s shady words.

He spun the last of his eggs around with his fork, suddenly remembering something from earlier. “Hey, didn’t you say you were goin’ out today?”

LeBron dropped his utensils with wide eyes. “Fuck,” he mumbled, pushing his seat away and getting up to grab his jacket. “You’re right. Sorry to kick you out, but I’m gonna be late for my personal practice if I don’t leave, like, now.” He was rushing, obviously – the way he let out an angry grunt when he dropped his keys out of his jacket and the aggressive swipe to pick them up off the floor were telling signs. His "personal practice" was obviously important to him.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Steph told him, grabbing his bag off the floor next to the couch. There was still aches running through his legs as he walked, and he knew he might get a verbal beating from Kerr too if they fucked him up during practice ( _“Fuck on your own damn time, not during the Playoffs!”_ ) but the pleasure he’d felt last night almost made it okay.

LeBron began taking long, quick strides towards the front door, before he turned around suddenly and stared towards Steph. “You need a ride?” he asked, sounding almost nervous – Steph might’ve actually thought he _was_ if he didn’t know better than that.

He thought for a second. He’d have to wait for a ride to show up, and he didn’t want to make awkward small talk with anyone, meanwhile this was an immediate ride and LeBron wasn’t a super talkative person (usually). “Uh, if you’re cool with it, sure,” he replied after a few seconds, stumbling anxiously over his words.

“Yeah, just come down with me. We can take the elevator.” Steph didn’t miss the way LeBron glanced towards his legs for a second before looking back up, lips twitching upwards slightly. He scowled a little in response, not in a malicious way but more in a stop-being-so-proud-of-my-pain sort of way, but couldn’t keep the face for too long and just nodded silently.

As he pulled his bag over his right shoulder and began to follow LeBron out, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what had happened to him last night. He’d gotten some weird sad feeling that he couldn’t shake off, and it got into his head, took control of him. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he got. This hadn’t happened in years, and yet now that he was with LeBron again it’d popped back up, with their “relationship” as the focus.

What if all this had been a mistake?

* * *

“D’ya need a therapist, maybe?”

Steph groaned, shaking his head. He was laying on his stomach on Klay’s bed, a towel sitting on his head to soak up the remaining sweat from their practice session they’d just gotten back from, having finally spilled out all his thoughts about his feelings from last night. Klay was sitting next to him, flicking through TV channels and trying to find something entertaining. “No,” Steph replied, resting his head on his arms. “I don’t think it’s that bad. Like, not a problem. I’m just…I don’t know.”

He wished, sometimes, that he’d actually finished taking his old psychology elective back at Davidson, because then maybe he’d know what was going on in his head. Instead, basketball practice had taken all of his attention due to the NCAA tournament, and he’d completely forgotten to do any studying for a big test in the class. After he’d taken it and was completely sure he’d failed due to not knowing a single answer, he’d dropped the class in order to stay on the basketball team. _Imagine if he’d been kicked off the team. Lost his NBA gig because he failed a college psychology elective._ The thought was laughable.

“Well, maybe it’s just because of Finals pressures. We did just go to seven games. Maybe you’re just nervous,” Klay supplied, although he didn’t seem like he believed his own words. Steph didn’t believe them either – he wasn’t nervous. They had the best regular season record of all times, had the championship title from last year which had involved them beating the same team they would be facing now, _and_ he was now a two-time (one unanimous) MVP winner. Losing was no longer in their vocabulary. They’d win this.

“Nah,” he responded as Klay put the remote down, stopping on a replay of the latest _Hell’s Kitchen_ finale. Steph didn’t remember much from this season, having only watched a few episodes. He just remembered one guy who’d been with the Marines and was a sexist asshole (Steph was very satisfied watching him get eliminated before reaching the black jackets). “I’m not too worried about that. I just felt weird about the whole thing.”

“Did something maybe trigger it?” Klay asked, as a scene of Gordon Ramsay praising the final chefs for their hard work and effort came on. _Imagine doing all that just to come up short, in second place._

Steph hadn’t pushed that possibility completely out of his head yet. LeBron had been the focus of his insecurities and doubts, and it only started happening again after he and the older man had sex. But he didn’t know how to tell that to Klay – he couldn’t admit that he was fucking his team’s worst enemy behind everyone’s backs to his teammate. “Maybe,” he settled on, lifting his feet up behind him. “I don’t know. Maybe it was just nothin’.” He didn’t think he was going to get anywhere with a half-listening Klay right now, and his mind’s inability to think of any good possibility for why he’d acted that way wasn’t helping.

“Wanna play Mario Kart?” he then asked, hoping some video games would put his mind to rest at least a little bit. When he turned around, he didn’t miss the way Klay’s lips turned upwards into a devilish smile.

“You’re on.”

They played for about twenty minutes (200cc Grand Prix, of course, because they weren’t bitches) before Steph, after coming in second to his teammate in every single race, finally gave up. “Whatever,” he said, flopping backwards onto Klay’s pillows. “I wasn’t trying anyway.”

Klay scoffed. “Sure, not like I could hear your annoyed breathing every time I stole your lead right out from under your ass,” he retorted, and Steph couldn’t deny it – he let out a grunt every time Klay passed him, because he’d only ever get a lead for around five seconds before Klay would take it from him.

“In my defense, I hardly ever play,” he pointed out. “Meanwhile, you have a problem.” Klay stuck his tongue out at him at the comment, and Steph couldn’t help but laugh at the childishness. His mind pointed out that getting defensive over losing in Mario Kart wasn’t much better, but he ignored it. Klay then tackled him, landing on top of him and nearly smothering him due to his size difference.

Steph flinched as Klay’s legs landed on top of his own and his ass was pushed into the mattress, familiar aches returning. “Ah, fuck,” he grunted out, unable to hide his reaction to the pain.

Klay immediately began sliding off of him, having noticed his distress. “You good?” he asked, all previous amusement in his demeanor vanishing. “You were actin’ kinda weird like this during practice too.”

“I’m,” Steph started, trying to think of an excuse, but he decided that he was going to have to admit what was going on eventually. “I, uh…you remember that guy from when I was in college? The one I hooked up with?”

This took Klay’s full attention, and the previous concern was replaced with what Steph could only describe as absolute delight. “Holy shit, did he fuck you again?!” Steph smacked his arm hard in response to the shout, momentarily forgetting that he and Klay were the only ones in the house (with Rocco) and looking around apprehensively for anyone listening in. “Sorry, dude, but oh my _god._ Wait, is he on the Thunder? Did Westbrook fuck you after you kicked his ass?”

“No!” Steph borderline yelled, feeling a sense of deja-vu as he remembered being in this same situation but with Anthony Davis as the focus instead of Russell Westbrook. “No, not…no one on the Thunder.” He didn’t want to admit it because Klay could and would rip him in half, but he had a feeling the younger man wasn’t going to stop pushing now.

“Oh, come on,” Klay groaned, dropping down next to Steph on the bed. “I’m not gonna kill you for it. I know it’s a player now. Just tell me who.”

Steph rolled over so his back was all Klay could see. “Trust me, you would kill me. So no.”

Klay began hitting at his back lightly, making whining sounds in an attempt to piss Steph off enough to get it out of him. “God, with the way you hide it, it’s like you’re fuckin’ LeBron or somethin’.”

That got Steph to freeze. He couldn’t stop the way every part of his body tensed up just like it did when LeBron would stand over him, wordlessly showing his dominance and control over him.

“Please tell me I’m not right,” Klay breathed out, having easily noticed the effect the name he’d mentioned had on Steph. “God, Steph…”

“I didn’t want you to know for a reason,” Steph mumbled after about a minute of silence, feeling uneasy again. “You pried.”

Klay smacked him again, a little harder than last time. “I was _joking._ God, you’re my best friend and I love ya but you have the worst taste.” Steph could hear the smile in his voice, and immediately started feeling better.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said as he rolled back over, licking his lips nervously as he stared at Klay. “You might not be killing me but they definitely would.”

For some reason, Klay started laughing. “God, imagine Dray walkin’ in on you two fucking.” Steph went beet red, imagining the situation far more vividly than he wanted to. “He’d try to kill both of you. You’re literally sleepin’ with the enemy.”

Steph then buried his face in the pillow, too embarrassed by the mental images to look back up. “Shut _up,_ ” he half-whined, half-shouted into the pillow.

“No, but it’s so funny! Imagine that!” Klay started laughing harder. Then his demeanor completely changed to serious, a large jump that would’ve surprised Steph if it had been anyone else. But it was Klay. That was just…him. “Wait, so, like, how is it? I gotta think he’s got a really big-”

_“Klay!”_


	5. Chapter 5

_Splash._

Steph was on the court two hours before the game, practicing shots from pretty much anywhere. He grinned proudly each time they went in, the light _swish_ ing sound of the net music to his ears.

Tonight was game one, and he’d be seeing LeBron again for the first time since their meetup a few days earlier. He couldn’t help but feel excited at the thought of seeing the man again, watching the way his face would fall ever so slightly after Steph and his team had beaten his own into the dirt. That mental image was enough to make him smile uncontrollably, and he let another shot fly. _Splash._

“Damn, don’t get hot yet. Wait until game time,” Klay said from behind him, walking over to sling an arm around his shoulders. “We gonna destroy your boyfriend.” Steph let out what could almost be classified as a squeak, shrugging Klay’s arm off and smacking lightly at his chest.

“Shut up, someone could hear!” He whisper-shouted, cheeks warming as he looked around apprehensively. “And he’s not my boyfriend.” He hated how petulant the second part sounded – it was like he was a fifth grader, whining when he got teased by his upperclassmen.

Klay laughed in response, grabbing a ball of his own when it rolled towards him from someone else’s missed shot. “Yeah, okay,” he replied, obviously being sarcastic, as he let his own shot fly. It spun around the entirety of the rim, leaving no area untouched, before dropping in neatly, and Steph hoped every shot either of them would take that night would do the same.

He elbowed Klay in the stomach lightly at the sarcastic remark, pretending he cared. The “boyfriend” tag flashed across his mind as if it was asking for him to remember it, but before he could think on it much the ballboy had passed him another ball.

As he readied himself in his shooting stance, preparing to sink yet another perfect three, the thought returned for a second. _What if LeBron was his boyfriend?_ He blinked once, shaking his head to try to get the question out of it. Then he took the shot, staring with distracted eyes as it flew through the air.

This one, however, instead of falling through the net with another satisfying _splash,_ fell just slightly short.

* * *

By halftime, Steph was still nervous. They were winning, yes, but not by much. And no lead was safe in the Finals, he’d come to learn. He wasn’t doing so great shooting-wise, and during the game he’d briefly wondered if he’d killed all his hotness earlier in shooting practice when he’d went on a streak and made six deep threes in a row. Klay wasn’t much better off, and both of them had walked back to the locker room frustrated with their performance. They were just lucky that their bench had stepped up, performing great and providing enough points for them to get and hold a lead going into the third quarter.

Their team was well-rounded, to say the least. They wouldn’t have gotten this far with such an outstanding record if their bench was shit. Steph knew he was going to need to bring up their “strength in numbers” slogan at their postgame interviews tonight – it was always asked about whenever their bench shined. It wasn’t like he was angry that the bench players were getting the attention, because he was ecstatic whenever they, being the less popular members of the team, got positive recognition. He was just upset about his own off night.

As he sat off to the side in the locker room, half-listening to Kerr’s speech to them all about not getting cocky and staying in it to keep their lead, Klay scooted over to his side. “Hey,” he whispered, “how’s being knocked around by your boy goin’?”

Steph resisted the urge to send Klay flying off the bench with the hardest shove in the ribs he could possibly muster up. “This is why I don’t tell you shit,” he mumbled, using his arm instead to rub his face with his hand.

Despite the rocky performance he’d started with, and his frustration going into the locker room, Klay was beaming proudly at Steph, and someone uninformed might have thought that, with his contagious smiling, he was having the best scoring night of his life. Sometimes, Steph wished he could have that power – smiling in the face of disappointment, finding something positive or funny in every situation. But instead he was a pessimist inside and out, despite his efforts to at the very least try to look on the bright side of things. It was what often made his rocky nights stay rocky, where someone like Klay would be able to come back later on. He’d be too down about his earlier faults and as a result be unable to play well later on.

“Come on, at least tell me if he gives you secret ass taps or grabs when he’s defending you. I bet he does,” Klay continued with a teasing tone. Steph sighed and shook his head, shutting his eyes and groaning a little. “I know that’s a foul, but you get smothered way worse than little grabs and still don’t get calls. He could totally get away with it.”

Steph let out a slightly louder groan this time, trying to get Klay to notice and drop the subject. He was annoyed enough; he didn’t need his friend teasing him about LeBron on top of his rocky night. Unfortunately, Klay wasn’t the only one who heard – Draymond, who was on Steph’s other side, grunted in annoyance and elbowed Steph a little too hard. “The fuck are y’all talkin’ about?” he grumbled without looking towards them.

“Nothing,” Steph replied quickly, giving away a little bit of his anxiety with the shakiness in his voice. Luckily, Draymond paid it no mind, instead shaking his head and mumbling “shut up then, before Coach kicks your asses.” Steph suppressed a sigh of relief before turning to Klay and sending him a glare, and Klay in turn put his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” the younger guard mouthed, a sheepish smile forming across his lips.

Before the conversation could get a proper end, the bell signaling when to go up after halftime went off. Kerr stopped mid-sentence, standing up with a somewhat forced smile on his face like he usually wore. “Keep it up, boys,” he finished, using his clipboard to usher them out faster.

Steph tried to rid himself of his first half frustrations, because that was behind him and if he kept thinking about it he’d only perform worse. He walked back out onto the court with the same distracted eyes he’d walked on with, chewing idly on his mouthguard.

It was game time.

* * *

As the game neared the end of the fourth quarter, Steph found himself sulking on the bench watching his teammates toss around the ball without much purpose. He hadn’t performed much better in the second half than he did in the first half, ending the game with a depressing four made shots out of fifteen taken. They’d pretty much solidified a win, though – when he’d been benched, there was only a minute and a half left to play and the Warriors were up by fourteen points.

He chewed on his mouthguard a little rougher than usual watching the end of the game, as Channing Frye grabbed a rebound with sixteen seconds left. Klay sat next to him, grinning proudly up at the scoreboard that now read 104 – 89, eternal optimism never dimmed at all. The way he jumped up at the sound of the final buzzer signaling the end of the game even affected Steph a little, and he hopped up behind his teammate to run and give high fives with big smiles to the bench players as they walked back over. “Good job, you did great,” he told them earnestly, the grin on his lips genuine despite his own less than stellar performance.

Postgame interviews were relatively uneventful, and Steph made a little extra effort to praise their bench for their great efforts that night. There was no real on-court drama, so the news outlets weren’t hunting too hard for any juicy headline messages they could possibly get out of him, luckily. He’d always hated it when they tried to force him to say something controversial, and then twisted his words around in order to make him look bad or stir something up with another player.

Klay slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close as he walked back into the locker room. He groaned at the touch, trying and failing at shrugging the arm off. “Wanna go out and drink?” Klay asked surprisingly quietly, and Steph was confused until he noticed the former glancing at Kerr nervously. Part of him was tempted to yell something along the lines of “no thank you Klay, I do not want to go get drunk with you during the Finals,” and get revenge on Klay for his earlier teasing by getting Kerr to make him stay late practicing shots instead of going out, but he wasn’t _that_ petty. Usually, at least.

“Maybe in a little while?” He instead offered in response, trying again to get the arm off. His body was still sweaty from the game, and having another sweaty arm touching his skin wasn’t making him feel much better. “I wanna go shower. I fuckin’ stink.” Klay laughed at the comment and nodded, releasing Steph’s shoulders.

“A’ight,” he replied, turning towards his own locker. “I’m headin’ out to the same place as last time. If ya wanna go hang with me there when you finish cleanin’ up, feel free.”

Steph picked up his change of clothes that he’d left on the bench, nodding back at Klay. “Got it.” He started walking over to the bathrooms, turning back as he got to the entrance. “Don’t kill yourself without me there to babysit you.”

A sock was flung at his head, and he laughed as he caught it with his free hand. Klay looked him in the eye, unable to suppress an amused smile. “No promises, asshole.” Steph grinned, tossing the sock back as he turned back around and continued into the bathroom.

When he walked in, he noticed that the room was completely empty. _They’ve all probably gone out to celebrate,_ his mind supplied as a reason. It made it easier for him to strip down without feeling awkward, at least, and he didn’t have to worry about wasting all the hot water when he wanted to take a nice and steamy shower because no one else was there to need it.

Those thoughts in mind, Steph turned the two shower knobs until he got to a warm temperature that he could deal with standing under for a while. He then leaned back against the wall, letting his tired legs rest for a few extra seconds after the game as the water began to soak his body.

His mind drifted to the game. How he felt chills run up and down his spine every time LeBron’s fingers brushed against him when he was guarding him, how he couldn’t even look the other man in the eye confidently during the game at all. The one time he’d been able to do it, LeBron had been staring right back at him – eyes narrowed, staring him down like he was just a pest. Nothing on his face giving away what had transpired between them nights before.

It wasn’t like he was surprised by the lack of acknowledgement. He’d dealt with that same look for nearly eight years straight. This was nothing new.

He began lathering himself in soap, eyes sliding shut as he began to imagine himself back in LeBron’s room. Held tightly against the back of the couch, breaths coming out heavily as he stared up at the other player with helpless, needy eyes.

_“Fuck me.”_

Heat swirled down in his groin area and he reached down, starting off stroking slowly as he continued to imagine it. LeBron would hold him tighter, bringing his lips up to Steph’s ear, dragging them agonizingly slow up his neck like he knew the effect it’d have.

_“I didn’t get that. Tell me again.”_

The words would be mocking. A challenge. Steph could back off now, prove he wasn’t just a bitch for the King, but deep down he knew he could never do that. He’d grab the back of LeBron’s neck, breaths becoming short and ragged as he looked him dead in the eye with all the desperation he could muster up.

_“Please…please fuck me, LeBron.”_

The heat intensified and he started stroking faster, imagining LeBron flipping him onto his stomach, crushing him against the cushions as finally, _finally_ he pushed himself inside. Steph gasped out loud as if he’d really been penetrated, sinking downwards on the wall as water continued to rain down on his head.

LeBron would probably be staring down upon him as he worked, thrusting hard in a fast rhythm like he had before. He wouldn’t speak much, just laughing every so often when Steph would moan a little loudly. Steph could imagine himself, finding trouble breathing as his face got pushed more and more into the cushion, turning his head slightly and choking on the air before LeBron would push his head down again.

He kept increasing his rhythm, feeling himself get close. “Fuck, fuck,” he breathed out, eyes tightly shut as the scene played out in his mind.

LeBron would pull him up off the couch slightly, just enough to let his dick free and grab it. He’d start stroking as rapidly as Steph was, planting bruising kisses all over his neck as if they were marks of ownership. Then he’d lift Steph’s head up by his chin and force him to make eye contact, the smug smile never leaving his face.

_“You ain’t nothin’ but a slut for my dick.”_

Steph grunted into his release, the force of it all pushing him back against the wall a little. He let out a deep sigh as it all came out into his hand and onto the shower floor, washing into the drain quickly. The water was cleaning his sticky body off within no time after his release had slowed down into a small dribble, and he kept his eyes shut as he tried to steady his breathing.

He’d really just gotten himself off to being fucked by LeBron. Being called a slut.

Fuck.

After he regained enough composure to stand up, he finished cleaning himself off – doing an extra thorough job to get rid of any remaining specks of cum. His fatigue reared its ugly head as soon as he walked out of the shower, and, though he knew he’d be disappointing Klay (unless he’d already found his date for the night), he decided that he just wanted to head home and sleep off all the weird feelings running through his mind and body.

He sent a quick text to Klay letting him know not to wait at the bar for him before hopping in his car and beginning his uneventful ride home, his tired mind drifting to various thoughts the whole way back. Even as he slipped into bed and tried to fall asleep, the thoughts kept catching his attention.

The one he just couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried was Klay calling LeBron his boyfriend, and how he’d feel if maybe, just maybe, that were actually true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marching band camp just started and i want to Die its awful and i swear to god my band director thinks i am the fucking flash  
> like ma'am no i can not go halfway across the field in 16 steps in rhythm while walking backwards i am 5'2 i have SHORT FUCKING LEGS PLEASE STOP DOING THIS TO ME
> 
> ^this isnt even an exaggeration i have 16 counts to go back way too far while there's also a line of people moving perpendicular to me so i also have to pay attention to where they are so i dont hit into them and thats VERY HARD bc im walking BACKWARDSSS AND PLAYING A FUCKING INSTRUMENT and i just;;; I CANT DO IT
> 
> anyway this is the best i can do bc i couldnt figure out a way to just go straight into more smut so hey maybe next time if i can remember how to fucking write (and if my arms and legs dont fall off from band camp) i can try to do something legitimately smutty lol :)) but i hope you enjoyed!! ♡


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been inexplicably sad all day and idk what to do about it fuck lol
> 
> also boogies acl :((( god i feel so fucking awful, all he wants to do is play and his leg just?? the achilles tear, the quad tear, now an acl tear he just cant catch a fucking break  
> he said he was close to quitting after the quad tear so im sure his mental health wasnt all that great back then and now hes on a recovery road and he has ANOTHER major leg injury? god im legitimately concerned for him mentally that shits gonna fuck him up, i hope he gets any and all possible help
> 
> anyway heres the chapter, no smut (yet) but we got more game!! so yay!! (also im trying my best to be accurate with this stuff but i cant find anywhere to rewatch the 2016 finals games so im mostly just going off random ass articles, box score, and play by play shit on espn so im sorry if its not all super accurate)

Game three had been where Steph got the first hint that things would start to go wrong.

They’d performed well in game two, pulling out another win and running off the court excitedly. Draymond had even confidently stated they could “totally end it in four,” before calling them the greatest team of all time. Steph didn’t know if he wanted to go that far yet, because they still hadn’t won, but it hyped up the rest of his team, so he let it go. If it got everyone pumped up and ready for the next game, it couldn’t be _that_ bad to have a little confidence.

LeBron hadn’t texted him at all after game one or game two, not even bothering to speak to him on the court. It had ticked him off a little more than he’d wanted to admit, but he knew there were probably reasons – these were the Finals, after all, and LeBron was probably spending all of his time practicing. Fucking his current greatest enemy probably wasn’t a big priority for him, and Steph could accept that even though he didn’t want to.

Tonight’s game was in Cleveland, though, so the advantage was to the Cavaliers. Steph was somewhat nervous, but he wanted to go in confident – winning two games in a row against another team in the Finals was no small feat, of course, even with a home court advantage. Besides, they’d won their away games at Cleveland during the regular season, so this game, theoretically, should have been no different.

Four hours before tipoff, Steph’s phone buzzed. He was about to settle into his bed in the hotel room he shared with Klay and take a nap before the game like he usually did when the default text tone went off, and Klay yelled at him for “interrupting his concentration” (frankly, though, there was nothing Steph cared about less than distracting Klay while he was playing one of the Call of Duty games).

It was, surprisingly, from LeBron. Not an invitation to come over, or a polite welcome (not that he was expecting _that_ ), but just seven ominous words.

_you’re on my turf tonight. good luck._

Any nerves he’d been trying to hide away going into the game came back at full force, and it didn’t help when he imagined LeBron, steely eyed and blank faced, saying those words to him. Looking down upon him as he spat the words out with venom. Steph’s teeth dragged across his lip hard as he shut his phone off, putting it on silent and tossing it to the side with a shaky hand. He needed to stop being so fucking scared. They were a 73-9 team, up 2-0 in the fucking Finals. It would be fine.

It would be fine, he repeated, and he kept repeating it as thought it were a mantra until he finally fell into a restless sleep in his bed.

* * *

It was not fine.

The Cavaliers were making jokes out of them. Steph was smothered every single time he touched the ball, unable to find a single opening to shoot, and when he did shoot it hardly ever went in. It almost felt like he’d lost his touch. Klay was having arguably an even worse shooting night than he’d had in game one, hardly even able to hit his free throws, although he actually had an excuse of being hurt from earlier in the game. The whole team was being sloppy with the ball – making bad passes, taking even worse shots, and a casual onlooker would hardly think of them as a playoff-worthy team seeing this performance, let alone their season record.

In contrast to their mess of a performance, however, the Cavs were on fire. LeBron and Kyrie were sinking shot after shot, in perfect sync with one another. Steph watched them high five once, excited smiles on both of their faces. He hated the way it made his stomach twist a little bit. He wasn’t jealous. There was nothing to be jealous of. He desperately needed his mind to shut the fuck up.

Steph knew the most memorable moment of the night would be his own blunder – LeBron had stolen the ball from him in the third quarter, flying down to the other end faster than anyone Steph had ever seen despite his large size. He dunked it hard, making a clear statement to anyone and everyone in the building – this was his turf. And then, to add insult to injury, he bumped Steph’s shoulder slightly on the way back to the other end of the court, turning back a little to look him dead in the eye.

He didn’t speak out loud, only mouthing words, but Steph still got the message loud and clear.

“I fuckin’ told you.”

Steph ended up on the other end of the court with his shoulders slumped, chewing on his mouthguard in an unsuccessful attempt to calm himself down. There was still another quarter left, but Steph didn’t have much hope left – he’d been trying to get hot all night, and it just hadn’t worked. His shooting was miserable, as was most of his team’s, and it felt like none of them could get into a good rhythm.

With five and a half minutes left in the fourth quarter, the game was pretty much solidified as over – the Cavaliers were leading by 22 points, and Steph was finally benched. He rested his head on Klay’s shoulder tiredly, closing his eyes to avoid watching the rest of their train wreck of a game. The sooner this was all over with, the better.

He cracked an eye open at the four-and-a-half-minute mark, watching the Cavaliers bench their starters. LeBron walked off next to Kyrie, talking animatedly about something. The way his eyes brightened and he nodded excitedly in response to something Kyrie must’ve said made Steph feel like he was going to throw up. He didn’t know why he was reading into the situation like this – obviously LeBron and Kyrie were friends. They were teammates; being friends was recommended in order to have good on-court chemistry, and they clearly had that. Besides, Kyrie actually knew LeBron personally. Steph didn’t. He didn’t have the right to be jealous of someone who knew LeBron far better than he did.

LeBron turned around to sit down, head turning towards the Warriors’ bench for a few seconds. He made eye contact with Steph, and Steph hated how his body went rigid seeing all earlier traces of positive emotion drain from the other man’s face upon seeing him. His eyes became steeled, revealing nothing that could be going on in his head. Steph suddenly wished he had telepathy, if only for a few seconds. Maybe that would put his mind to rest.

Before he could spontaneously develop any mind-reading abilities, though, LeBron had turned away from him to go back to speaking to Kyrie on the bench. Steph bit down hard on his mouthguard, slumping back into his seat and training his eyes directly on the ground with an audible sigh.

Klay looked over to him, his usual grin missing from his face. Steph glanced up for a second before looking away. He never felt right when Klay wasn’t smiling. A smile seemed so natural and so common on his teammate’s face, like it was just _supposed_ to be there; when it was gone, he’d start to feel off. It also meant this had been that bad of a loss for even the most optimistic of players to be unable to smile or crack a joke about it.

“You good?” Klay asked him rocking forwards a little in his chair to try and get Steph to look at him again. Steph turned away more, staring down at the floor opposite the side of him that Klay was on. “Did he say some shit to you?” The question came out like an annoyed yet tired growl, and Steph could only shake his head in response. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Klay pulled him in close. “Listen, I know you got that thing goin’ on, but that don’t give him the right to act like a bitch to you. Lemme know if he tries anything, I’ll straighten ‘im out.”

Steph scoffed, halfheartedly swatting at the arm around his body. “Dude, he’d pummel you,” he pointed out, forcing out a laugh with the words. “He didn’t say shit, though. I’m just kinda pissed how we played.” He neglected to mention the text from earlier and their one short on-court interaction, because he didn’t need to add to the list of reasons for Klay or the rest of the team to be upset.

Klay nodded, and that seemed to be where he’d stopped paying attention Steph, because no further attempts at conversation were made until the buzzer sounded and they were on the way back to the locker room. He’d mumbled “we’re so fucked” as they walked back, eyeing their coach anxiously. Steph knew that another reaming out was coming – it always did when they performed bad, and tonight was nothing short of a shitshow.

His suspicions were proven correct when he sat down on the bench between Klay and Andre, eyes trained on the floor as Kerr screamed at them for what felt like hours. Steph almost thought their coach might’ve had some photographic memory, mentioning practically every single mistake they’d made during the game down to the smallest of details. He’d even remembered when Steph tripped over his own feet running back to the other end of the court after a made basket, even though it hadn’t even mattered because Steph wasn’t even involved in the play following that incident.

The locker room’s atmosphere was depressing, and for once their usual pep and confidence was dimmed into quiet murmurs of disappointment as, when Kerr was finished and told them to “fuck off outta here,” they gathered their belongings from the lockers. Steph trudged to the postgame interview sullenly, arriving late and getting chastised for doing so even though it wasn’t his fault.

The questions weren’t anything new, basically just a grouping of awkward questions that wouldn’t quite directly ask what he knew all the reporters wanted to ask – “why’d you play so bad?” He gave vague answers more often than not, mostly because he really couldn’t answer. This was the Finals, so every game was a must-win, obviously, but they hadn’t gone into the game nervous or anything. They were up 2-0, so if anything they’d went in feeling pretty comfortable. And yet…they’d gotten blown out. Granted, they didn’t have home court, but it wasn’t like they’d achieved a 73-9 record by only winning home court games. There was no excuse for tonight’s performance.

Surprisingly, the interviews went by quickly – he didn’t know why, at first, until he noticed LeBron and Kyrie standing off to the side awaiting their turn as he stepped off the podium. LeBron made eye contact with him, cocking an eyebrow with an unreadable expression on his face. Steph flushed at the eye contact and looked away, hoping to rush out of the room as quick as he could.

That, unfortunately, involved going past LeBron, who was now walking towards the podium himself. He tried to scuttle past quickly, keeping his eyes trained expertly on each floor tile he set foot on, holding his breath as he walked as though that would somehow make him turn invisible.

He almost screamed when he felt a slight tap on his ass, and froze mid-step for a second, suddenly breathing like he was just finished playing in a game. He looked back, hesitant, and LeBron was looking at him again – this time, with lips curled up into another smug smile. The look only lasted for a second, though, because then LeBron had turned back to sit down and begin answering his own questions – no doubt more positive than the ones Steph had been asked.

He walked out of the room on suddenly unsteady legs, unable to get rid of the blush covering his cheeks. Klay was waiting for him outside the doors, looking like he’d perked up a little bit compared to how he had been in the locker room.

“Why are you all red? Did LeBron fuck you in there?”

Yep, he was back to normal again.

“No,” he responded, hardly having the energy to deal with Klay’s shit at the moment. “It was nothin’.”

Klay prodded at his shoulder, every touch sending a fresh shockwave of annoyance through Steph’s body. “You don’t walk outta there lookin’ like a fuckin’ ripe ass tomato unless _something_ happened. Spill or I’ll text LeBron myself.”

Steph scoffed, trying to walk faster in a desperate escape attempt. “You don’t even have his number,” he pointed out, resisting the urge to groan when Klay continued to keep pace with him.

He felt something pulling down at his pants for a second before it disappeared, and he lifted a hand ready to smack Klay harder than he ever had before. “What the fu-?!”

Klay held his phone in front of him, grinning deviously. “No, but _you_ do.”

_Oh, fuck._

Before he had time to fully process the hidden threat in the four word sentence, Klay had darted off down the hallway. Steph broke into a sprint in pursuit, shouting obscenities – and apologizing to anyone he passed – in Klay’s direction. “Give me my fucking phone back!” he yelled as he rounded a corner, cursing under his breath when he saw the back doors of the building at the end of the hall.

“Nah, I got a better idea,” Klay called back, laughing as he pushed through the doors and slammed them shut behind him before Steph could catch up.

When Steph got outside, he started running towards Klay’s car, because he had no idea where else the other player could possibly be in that moment. Luckily, his guess was spot on – Klay sat in the front seat of his car, laughing hysterically. As soon as he was close enough, Steph began yanking on the door handle, partially trying to rip it off. “Unlock the goddamn car and give me my phone!” He demanded, banging on the window with his free hand as he kept pulling.

Klay rolled down the window, giving him another shit-eating grin. “You need somethin’?” he asked, playing dumb. Steph resisted the urge to slap him across the face.

“Give me my phone,” he said through gritted teeth, glaring so hard he was hoping he could rip holes in the other man with his eyes. Klay only laughed at the expression, tossing the phone out like it was no big deal and he hadn’t just been running for his life with it.

He quickly opened up his messages app, dreading what he was going to see. Sure enough, Klay had sent a message, and Steph felt every part of his body get hot with shame and embarrassment reading it.

_hey im depressed n horny pls gimme ur dick_

He smacked his hand against his own face, pulling downwards at his skin. “Fuck, Klay,” he half-whined half-growled, too embarrassed to even be truly angry. “God, he’s gonna think this was me, he’s gonna… _fuck._ ”

“I was only telling the truth,” Klay said innocently, blinking up at him with a childish look on his face. Steph had never wanted to slap him more. “Dude, you walked out with a goddamn tent in your pants. Somethin’ obviously happened.”

Steph went to protest, but he paused before speaking for once, confused. “I-I _what?_ ”

Klay laughed at the shock on his face. “Yeah, I’on know when it started but it was pretty fuckin’ obvious when you walked over to me. You just didn’t notice.” Steph felt hot with embarrassment all over again, hoping desperately that the room full of reporters who would _definitely_ make that kind of incident a headline didn’t see.

He went to respond, probably squeak out a dumb excuse that Klay wouldn’t buy, when his phone buzzed. Klay raised a curious eyebrow. “That him already?” he asked, sounding amused. Steph waved him off, hiding his phone screen from the other player’s view and earning an upset whine in response.

Sure enough, the text was from LeBron, and he felt fresh waves of embarrassment flood his body.

_lmao u tht upset over a loss? maybe dont get so cocky next time_

He hated the fact that he was actually disappointed when the sex part of Klay’s text was seemingly ignored. But the disappointment didn’t last, because seconds later he received a second text.

_im goin out for a bit rn but if ur that desperate u can come over @ 10:00._

There was an address attached beneath the text, and Steph quickly saved it in his maps app and in LeBron’s contact (just in case he might need it again some other time). He wanted to explain himself, say he didn’t text something like that, but he knew LeBron wouldn’t care. He could see a reply now – _even if it wasn’t you writing it, it aint wrong._

So instead, he ended texting back just a simple _okay_ , glad the other man wasn’t able to see how he was blushing behind his screen. He looked back up at Klay, who was still struggling to look over at his phone. “Did I get you dick tonight?” he asked eagerly, and Steph wondered when and why Klay'd gotten so invested in his sex life.

“I’m gonna be back at the hotel late,” he mumbled, not making eye contact and avoiding the question. But the words made it obvious enough, and Klay pumped a fist in the air.

“Oh, I totally fucking did!” he shouted, and Steph shoved a hand through the open car window to cover his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, oh my _god,_ ” he whined, removing the hand when Klay started letting out groans in protest. “You’re such an ass, you know that?”

Klay gave him a toothy grin with two thumbs up, and Steph resisted the urge to cringe. “I’m also the greatest best friend ever. Who else would do something like this to get their friends the dick they want so bad?”

“Anyone with any sense of sanity,” Steph retorted, checking the time before shoving his phone into his pocket. It was only nine o’clock. He still had an hour. “Are you headin’ back to the hotel or are you goin’ out?” he asked, eager to change the subject to something more comfortable.

Klay shrugged. “Prolly headin’ back. The bars here are kinda shit…oh, and I just unlocked another Smash character so I wanna try it out.” He wriggled his eyebrows, looking expectantly at Steph.

“Dude, you just basically asked LeBron to fuck me and now you want me to ditch him to play video games with you?” Steph asked incredulously. He realized that embarrassment was forthcoming either way – Klay was far better than him at Smash, though he’d never admit it, and LeBron…well, he’d already been embarrassed more than once in front of the older man that night.

“Fine, fine, do what you want,” Klay said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’m gonna head back, though. Don’t come back covered in cum. Please. That won’t be pretty.” Steph flushed and smacked him once on the shoulder lightly.

He said goodbye and backed away from the car, watching quietly as Klay pulled out of his spot and started driving away, giving him one last grin and a wave – Steph flipped him off in response – as he turned away and left the parking lot. Steph stood out there, alone in the dark, one hand clutching his phone in his pocket as though it was a lifeline.

Klay had told him to do what he wanted. That shouldn’t have been that hard.

But now that he thought about it, Steph was having trouble knowing what he really wanted anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in some positive news i finished band camp today!! so im done dying inside  
> a girl passed out mid routine and i felt terrible, then i almost passed out n my vision got all fucked up n shit but i didnt say anything bc im dumb and i just wanted to finish the routine (bc we were almost done) and go inside. it ended up being fine and i think it was just dehydration bc it went away when i got inside and drank some water at least
> 
> im gonna go try and write the next chapter quickly bc i feel bad for the lack of smutty shit here, sorry :( and maybe i can make myself stop being sad too bc thatd be hella cool but my sad days usually dont work like that so im prolly fucked all day lol great
> 
> i'll leave y'all with this: https://www.reddit.com/r/nba/comments/cqjan9/russell_westbrook_forgets_to_dribble/ even though its missing the best part (steph going "what are you doing" and russ looking so sincerely confused replying "i dont know")


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while i was in the middle of writing this chapter my lil kitten who i just adopted like 2 weeks ago decided to just hop up on my lap?? and it was fine at first but then she got onto the keyboard and stepped on the backspace button and i almost DIED
> 
> i couldnt even be mad tho shes so precious i love her fuck
> 
> anyway i finally wrote smut so have fun

As it turns out, the address LeBron had sent was actually his house address, and Steph felt a little proud of himself for having the sense to save it. He knew that the other player was incredibly wealthy – he was, too, so of course LeBron would be – but still. The man’s house was absolutely gigantic. Steph swallowed hard, yanking his phone out of his pocket to check the time once more. _10:05._ He was here, and it was time, and he had no excuse to fall back on now. So, he forced himself to fake confidence for once and pressed the doorbell, flinching in surprise at the loud sound it emitted.

He stood awkwardly at the door for about a minute, sucking on the inside of his cheek while his hands fidgeted around in his pockets. He was beginning to think about either leaving or calling the other player to ask where he was when he heard a sound behind the door and then it opened, revealing LeBron. The man was dressed in a Cavs sweatshirt and black sweats, and he had a red sweatband covering his forehead.

“Hey, sorry for makin’ ya wait. Was finishing my workout,” LeBron explained casually, not-so-subtly looking Steph’s whole body over. “Come on in.” He moved out of the doorway, gesturing for Steph to come inside. Steph walked in hesitantly, feeling even less welcome here than he did in LeBron’s Oakland apartment.

“Uh, nice place,” he mumbled, trying to make some sort of conversation. There was a chandelier above the entrance, its bright lights practically sparkling from the glow of the moonlight coming in through the windows. He squinted up at it, admiring its sheer beauty. It was obviously supposed to be what every visitor first saw when they walked in, meant to reel them in with its grandeur, say “look at me. I’m great.” Steph found it almost as threatening as LeBron.

“Thanks,” LeBron replied, leading Steph through a few rooms until they reached the kitchen, where he began rummaging through some cabinets. “You wanna drink anything?” he asked, pulling out a bottle of wine.

Steph stared at the bottle uncertainly. He knew that getting a little drunk would definitely help his nerves, get him buzzed and make him finally stop looking like a scared child. But he also knew he shouldn’t – he _always_ said dumb shit when he got drunk. Then again, Lebron had seen Klay’s text, so in a way Steph had already said some dumb shit. It couldn’t get that much worse.

With that in mind, Steph nodded silently, and LeBron grabbed two glasses and began pouring him a drink. “Still horny?” he asked offhandedly while pouring into the first glass, speaking as if it was no big deal, and Steph almost choked on his own saliva. _God, fuck Klay._

“I…” he tried, but no words came to mind for him to respond with. “I…yeah?” he finally answered, the word coming out like a question rather than a definitive answer, and when he realized what he’d said his cheeks heated up with embarrassment. “Fuck, I mean-”

“Nah, I get it,” LeBron interrupted, passing him the full glass of wine. Steph eyed it suspiciously, as if somehow, despite him literally watching LeBron pour it in front him, the other player might’ve done something to it. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t, right?”

Steph suddenly felt _much_ hotter, tugging at the collar of his shirt with two fingers to get the warm fabric away from his skin in an attempt to cool down. He took a long sip of his drink, the liquid setting his tongue on fire and making him shut his eyes in surprise at the powerful taste. But after that initial reaction, it felt better, sliding down his throat with ease. Steph felt a little more comfortable, taking another sip. “You…had a good game,” he admitted begrudgingly, looking away from LeBron.

LeBron hummed, taking a sip of his own drink. “I told you, this my turf. Y’all ain’t got a fuckin’ chance here.” He sounded confident, as if he had nothing to worry about – like he was ignoring, or downplaying the team he was facing. It irked Steph, to say the least, because they hadn’t come this far to _still_ be looked down upon by the King.

“We’re still leading,” he pointed out, accidentally revealing his irritation with a petulant tone to his voice. “Just ‘cause you got one measly win don’t mean you’re gonna win the next, or any shit like that.”

“Funny hearin’ you say that, of all people,” LeBron commented, finishing his glass in record time. Steph masked his amazement, sucking a cheek in to chew on it. Every sentence that came out of LeBron’s mouth seemed demeaning, like he was just talking to a little pest he’d need to brush off. For fuck’s sake, they were still up 2-1, and LeBron was shit-talking after one game.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Steph asked, feeling buzzed from the confidence booster that was alcohol. “You act like we ain’t shit. We’re still beatin’ your asses. One game don’t mean shit.”

LeBron scoffed. “Really? The fuck was your team doin’ then, ‘cause I remember them actin’ this same damn way just a few days ago when y’all won game two. Hell, you was tellin’ me you’re takin’ home this ring before the Finals even _started._ ” Steph bit down on his cheek harder, because LeBron was telling the truth. He knew he should stop, give in, because there was no way he was winning this argument, but there was one part of him – the stupid part, boosted by alcohol – that refused to back down.

“We’re fuckin’ acting like that ‘cause we’re _better._ Y’all can’t say that shit. Your team got your asses beat last year _by us_ and we’re gonna fuckin’ do it again this year. One win ain’t shit.” Part of him knew he needed to shut up – last time should’ve been enough of a lesson for him – but the drunk part had too much control for him to listen.

A guttural laugh surprised him, and he looked LeBron in the eye. The man was smiling, but the way his eyes were narrowed and the tips of his lips twitched in the slightest way gave him a dangerous aura. “You really don’t fuckin’ listen, do you?” he mumbled, pushing his empty glass to the side and standing up. Steph had to move his head back to look up at him and see his face, the smile gone and replaced with a thin, straight line. “I told you – cockiness is just gonna fuck you up.” He walked around the bar table and closer to Steph, who edged backward in his seat.

“But clearly you don’t fuckin’ care about what I’m sayin’,” LeBron continued, and now Steph stood up to back away as LeBron kept getting closer. He could feel the anger rising up in the other man, and it scared him knowing that all it took to get him like that was his drunken shit-talking. He’d made this monster all on his own. “So maybe I’ll just show you instead.”

A large hand clamped around his neck, and he felt his back hit a wall as he was pushed roughly. LeBron yanked his pants down before doing the same with his own using only one hand, then placed the hand on Steph’s shoulder. He pushed down hard, and Steph let out a choked whine as he slid down the wall onto his knees, unable to take a breath or cry out or do anything that could possibly help him now. He was ashamed to see that he was already getting hard, his dick springing up as soon as it got released from his pants.

LeBron loosened the grip on his neck slightly, allowing Steph to breathe just a little bit. He knew he’d have bruises by tomorrow – LeBron was too rough, too strong. And yet the thought of those marks, having to be careful hiding and treating them tomorrow, only made him even more aroused, and he had to take faster breaths. “You like this?” LeBron asked, and Steph grunted in response, eyelids fluttering as his vision became a little spotty.

“How about we try somethin’ else?” The hand was removed from Steph’s neck, and he fell forwards gasping for air. LeBron caught him with one hand, squeezing his shoulder tight and pushing him back slightly to keep him upright. “Open your mouth,” the man ordered, and Steph obliged without hesitation.

The sudden lack of space in his mouth seconds later nearly made him scream. LeBron’s dick was as huge as it had been before, except usually it was in his ass, not in his mouth. He felt his throat instinctively try to constrict, only to be stopped by the largeness hitting the back end of it, and he gagged, letting out more whines and trying to pull away. LeBron grabbed his hair, tangling his fingers and gripping tightly so Steph couldn’t move his head. “Relax,” he said, but Steph felt like that was the last thing he could do as the other player’s large member rubbed against the back of his throat. “It’ll only be bad ‘till you calm down.”

Steph felt like everything in him was shutting down, like the walls were closing in, and he _couldn’t fucking breathe,_ and he didn’t know how he was supposed to calm down at all. Saliva that he couldn’t swallow was pooling in his mouth, dripping down his chin, and he wouldn’t be able to hold his head up without the assistance LeBron was providing. He sluggishly realized that he must’ve looked absolutely fucked, totally helpless and at the other man’s disposal.

The strange feeling of fingers carding through his knotted hair took him by surprise, and yet he quickly found himself leaning into the touch (as best as he could, anyway). His mouth started going slack, and suddenly holding the other man’s dick was becoming a lot easier. “There we go,” LeBron mused above him, continuing to slide his fingers between little knots and loosening them up with surprising ease and gentleness. “It’s easier when you aren’t resisting.”

Steph let out a ragged hum of his own, eyelids settling shut as he managed to finally find a comfortable position, and he didn’t know how long they stayed like that. It felt like forever, and he thought he might actually fall asleep in that position, but finally, LeBron took the grip out of his hair and said “alright, back off.” He forced his eyes open and pulled his head back slowly, nearly crying when his gag reflex got set off as the tip of LeBron’s dick hit the top of his throat.

When the other man was fully out, Steph slumped forwards into LeBron’s legs, taking in deep breaths that made him cough. Each cough made his throat scream out in pain and soreness and he winced, letting out what was almost a whimper. LeBron’s hand snaked down his back and began rubbing slow, large circles, and Steph’s bleary mind had no idea how someone who was so rough only minutes ago could become so gentle so quickly.

After a few moments the hand disappeared, returning seconds later to grab his chin and pull his head up so he was staring at LeBron. “Tell me what you want,” the other player ordered, his emotionless face sending a chill down Steph’s spine.

“You,” he breathed out, the sound grating against his throat and leaving behind aches. “Fuck, ‘Bron, please…fuck me.”

“Finally, some fuckin’ humility,” LeBron mumbled, and Steph could almost hear a hint of fondness in the words. He was lifted up, face buried in the larger man’s chest as he was carried into another room and tossed without much grace facefirst onto a couch. The fabric was soft, and he sunk into it like it was a beanbag cushion.

He could hear LeBron pop something – a bottle, probably – open behind him, and seconds later there was a wetness invading his ass. LeBron’s fingers moved around, exploring every area with whatever oil he had on, slickening up every spot he could find. Steph let out short gasps as the digits moved around, at one point nearly choking on air as LeBron reached in as deep as he could. “Fuck,” he forced out, knuckles turning white as he grabbed the fabric of the cushions. “Fuck, fuck.” He couldn’t stop the stream of curses, and he sucked in a long breath when the fingers disappeared seconds later.

They were quickly replaced by LeBron’s dick, which was still covered in Steph’s saliva, the member sliding in with ease and taking up as much space as possible. Steph had gotten better with taking him, breathing heavily and clenching tightly around the man’s wet member. “Ah, fuck,” LeBron groaned from behind him, setting a fast, even pace as he began thrusting. “Fuck, your ass is still fuckin’ perfect.” Steph let out a choked laugh at the sudden praise, nearly crying with surprise and deliriousness as he felt a slap on his left ass cheek seconds later. “So good for me, always so fuckin’ tight. S’like you’re still in college.”

Steph’s arousal only increased as the praise kept coming, and he had to reach down to find his own dick and begin stroking as LeBron started going faster. A hand wrapped around his stomach, moving downwards to touch Steph’s own hand, which was still over his dick. LeBron pushed the hand off with ease, grabbing Steph’s dick himself and stroking perfectly in time with his thrusts.

There was a hard thrust, hitting his prostate dead on, and Steph couldn’t help but let out a loud moan. “Yeah, you love that shit,” LeBron mused, laughing a little. “So fuckin’ good for me.” Steph groaned, the heat swirling in his gut wildly and demanding to be let out.

“I’m close,” he gasped out, cracking an eye open and turning his head to look up at LeBron. The man looked amused, cracking him a smug grin. He tugged on Steph’s dick twice, the motion only increasing his heat.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, voice rough and deep with his own arousal. “Cum for me.” Steph’s body seized up at the command, and he let out a groan as he released, spilling into his hand. LeBron followed him over the edge seconds later, releasing his own seed inside of Steph.

They laid like that for a while, reveling in the euphoria that always came post-orgasm, LeBron laying down next to Steph and wrapping his arms around him. Steph felt his cheeks warm at the touch, his heart rate quickening the slightest bit. He thought for a second that maybe his insecurities and worries were for naught, because here he was, being held in LeBron’s arms like he actually meant something. Like this wasn’t all just to fuck with him.

But then LeBron’s grip loosened, and he sat up, leaving Steph in the suddenly very cold air without anything to keep him warm. “It’s getting late,” the man remarked, not even looking down at Steph, who was staring up at him with confused eyes. “You gotta get back to your hotel, right?”

Steph felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach, and any emotional high he’d just had completely disappeared without a trace. All his insecurities flooded back into his head, and he had to blink back a sudden onslaught of tears that had decided to invade his eyes. _This doesn’t mean shit._ “Oh, uh,” he mumbled, the sounds coming out raw and hurting his throat far more than he liked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll, uh…I’ll go.”

LeBron got up, walking back into the bar room and grabbing Steph’s pants off the floor, As Steph got up, he tossed them to him, watching silently without giving away anything on his face as Steph pulled them up on his shaky legs. He kept his eyes downcast, worried that if he looked up at LeBron he’d just break, and he’d never live that down. So he trudged past, walking with a slight limp towards the front door. LeBron followed, neither of them saying a word until Steph reached the entrance.

“Uh…” he forced out, unsure of how to end this. “See you?” he tried, realizing too late that it almost sounded desperate, like he expected more.

LeBron cocked his head to the side, still staring down at him with a blank face. “Maybe,” he replied, leaning over and opening the door for Steph. “G’night.”

“Night,” Steph mumbled back, eyes dropping back down to the floor as he walked out. It had apparently started to rain while he was inside, and the droplets managed to clean off any specks of cum left on his exposed skin as he walked to his car. This was a fitting atmosphere for his mood right now, Steph mused. He hated the way a single tear rolled down his cheek, masked only by the many rain droplets sliding down with it.

Driving back to the hotel in complete silence, utterly alone, left him to just be assaulted by his thoughts once more. He meant nothing to LeBron; their meetings were nothing but quick sources of pleasure for the older man. He wouldn’t have kicked him out if he actually cared.

He realized in that moment that he felt _something,_ something more than just a “fuck-buddy” feeling towards LeBron, and the realization only made everything in him twice as sore. _You’re in love with him, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about you._ He gripped the steering wheel tighter in response to the tears pricking at his eyes, blinking a few times to push them away.

He knew he should stop this, because it was obviously just hurting him and he shouldn’t be willing to deal with all the mental stress just to make his dick happy for a short while, and yet at the same time, he just didn’t know if he even could stop at this point.

Steph wondered if he could stop if LeBron kept going like this, kept getting worse, fucking him up inside until he was nothing but a shell of what he’d used to be. He hated that he didn’t know if he’d be able to say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear its gonna get less sad i promise there will be a happy ending to this series pls do not hurt me !!
> 
> this is kinda short but i am gonna try to make the next chapters longer  
> im aiming for this to be 10 chapters max but idk if im gonna be able to fit 4 games and more smut scenes (and angst shit) into 3 chapters so that may change, idk yet im just trying my best
> 
> also i can now confidently say this'll be a 3 book series (and book 3 is probably gonna be shorter than this one) but i also have a couple scrapped ideas/chapters i might compile into a book after i finish all of this just bc i still kinda like those ideas, they just dont fit into the story very well. but we shall see
> 
> have a nice day!! ♡♡♡


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i fucking suck im so sorry for taking this long
> 
> im not gonna write a long note bc im sure everyone is done with my bullshit but yeah this is super rushed and bad but i need to get something out bc ive taken so long and i need to work on my summer assignments SO here you go !!!

The Warriors had gone into game five angry.

Game four had been another win for them – giving them a 3-1 lead in the Finals. They should’ve been celebrating already, because no team had ever blown a 3-1 lead in the Finals before, and there was no way they’d be the first. But instead, they’d left the stadium irritated after an altercation between LeBron and Draymond. LeBron had knocked Draymond to the ground and walked over him, a sign of disrespect that set Draymond off immediately. They’d been pushing and shoving at each other aggressively until the referee finally blew a whistle to separate them, and at one point Dray had yelled something that set LeBron off immediately. Steph hadn’t heard whatever was said, and from how angry it had gotten the other man he didn’t know if he wanted to hear it. 

To his credit, Draymond actually didn’t escalate the situation further, having known that doing so would likely result in a technical and not wanting to risk suspension. LeBron had to be held back by his teammates, absolutely seething as he yelled obscenities towards the other man. No technicals were issued during the game, and it ended with the Warriors winning in a landslide victory, and yet Steph had walked out with an uneasy feeling in his chest, unable to celebrate with his teammates. 

Later that night they’d hopped on their flight back to Oakland when Kerr delivered the shocking news – Draymond had been suspended for the next game. Immediately outrage broke out, with Draymond furiously shouting about how “damn LeBron has this shit all rigged to help himself!” and everyone calling bullshit on the suspension. Steph didn’t want to blame LeBron, because he _knew_ the other man – at least, a little bit – and he just didn’t think he’d do something like that, but he also didn’t understand how what happened warranted a suspension in the Finals of all things. LeBron has been the one to instigate, and though Draymond had taken the bait and gotten aggressive back, he’d also stopped first. Everyone had assumed that would have been the end of it, because neither player had gotten a tech and the situation hadn’t seemed _that_ bad at the time, and yet now, this had happened.

Steph couldn’t sleep for the rest of the flight, thoughts running rampant through his head. He hadn’t yet been able to rid his mind of the insecure thoughts that had begun plaguing him after LeBron had basically kicked him out, and those coupled with the lurking suspicion that LeBron had something – maybe everything – to do with Draymond’s suspension, which he found unjust, wasn’t helping. He’d wondered if this was just further proof that LeBron really didn’t care about him, because if he was the reason for the suspension then that proved he was willing to fuck over Steph’s team even wrongly just to get what he wanted. He tried to push the thought away.

LeBron had hardly interacted with him during that game either, only ever really looking at him when defending him, and even then he was completely stone-faced. Steph had tried to act like it didn’t bother him, but he’d done a poor job of it. He’d actually done pretty well shooting-wise, ending up with 38 points to his name by the end of the night, but he’d walked off the court with his shoulders slumped anyway, and Klay had asked him if he was feeling okay.

He’d shrugged the question off, just mumbling about being tired and wanting to pass out on their flight home. Klay didn’t seem to believe him, but didn’t pry any further – thankfully, Steph might add – and hadn’t spoken much until Draymond’s suspension news had been delivered mid-flight. He’d apparently sensed Steph’s distress, slinging an arm around Steph’s shoulders and telling him not to worry – they’d destroy the Cavs in the next game anyway, and then Steph could “get dicked down with a trophy right next to his bed.”

Steph punched him halfheartedly, telling him to fuck off and let him sleep, and Klay, despite laughing, had obliged. Unfortunately, Steph still couldn’t find it in him to fall asleep, ending up just playing games on his phone for most of the flight as the bags under his eyes became more and more pronounced, and the thoughts in his head ate more and more away at him.

Today, though, was the day of game five, and Steph really hoped they could make good on Klay’s promise. They’d done an interview the night before, in which Klay had made some controversial, to say the least, statements about LeBron regarding Draymond’s suspension. Steph had nearly gone red in the face with a combination of anger and embarrassment, wishing he could just yank Klay away from the microphone that night as he kept spouting words that were clearly meant to rile up the opposing team and give the reporters plenty of juicy headlines. He’d yelled at Klay afterwards, asking what the hell he was on that made him think saying _that_ was a good idea, but Klay had just shrugged him off with a “listen, I know you like him, but that doesn’t mean I have to.” Steph tried to form a rebuttal, but he gave up pretty quickly. Klay seemed to not have any care for what he’d said, and Steph knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to change his mind.

LeBron hadn’t reacted much to the statements, but Steph could just see in his eyes the anger that was boiling. He went red in the face just looking at the man when he was asked about it during his own interview, and felt guilty for not saying anything during the conference to possibly stop Klay earlier. LeBron responded like it was nothing, brushing the obvious insult off in favor of just him what he thought during game time rather than saying anything early. The sentiment nearly sent a chill down Steph’s spine – he could tell they were in for it tonight, because they’d angered the beast.

He just desperately hoped they could pull through anyway, and he could finally be freed of the mental mess he was in, safe from the attacks of his own mind.

* * *

Steph was still uneasy and uncertain as he walked onto the court, shoulders slumped with discomfort. He wanted to do well, prove himself worthy of this ring and just be done with the post season already – because they were up three to one, so they were going to win, and he shouldn’t be so worried – but he felt like absolute crap and didn’t know how they were supposed to pull off a win. They were without their engine, and, though Draymond was already shouting confidence boosters from the sidelines, it was definitely going to hurt them.

Klay had hung out with him before the game, staying extra close and trying to cheer Steph up with a few jokes. He hadn’t questioned Steph at all since their little conversation on the plane, but he was obviously still concerned – every few minutes he’d hook an arm around Steph and squeeze his shoulder, his main way of comforting, and he kept repeating how they were going to win and had nothing to worry about. Steph appreciated the little attempts, and wished they could do something for him, but he didn’t think that whether or not they’d win was the main thing stressing him out.

He wanted to talk to LeBron, say something, anything, and just fix whatever shit they were in, but he couldn’t work up the confidence to seek the other man out. He doubted that LeBron even wanted to see him – he was obviously more than just a little ticked off by Klay’s comments, and seeing Steph might just make it worse. Besides, this probably wasn’t the best time to talk, because they were only minutes from tipoff.

With two minutes left on the clock before it would be game time, Kerr called all of his players into a huddle. Steph was smushed between Klay and Andre, touching shoulders with both other players. He wrung his hands together, nerves buzzing around in his head. Draymond was next to Kerr, an expression just as purposeful and determined as their coach’s was. “Alright, we went over the plan already,” Kerr stated, lips pressed in a thin line. His expression gave nothing away – if he was nervous, Steph had no idea. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I wanna finish this now. Goin’ back to Cleveland doesn't sound very fun.”

A couple of the guys gave little grunts of agreement in response, and Draymond shouted “fuck ‘em, let’s just kick their asses here!” His words sparked more cheers, and the team left their huddle shouting about getting revenge and shoving Dray’s suspension “up LeBron’s ass.” Klay, of course, was the one who yelled that, and Steph elbowed him, grunting at him to shut up.

One of the referees walked over and told them to get ready on the court, and everyone obliged. Steph took his position, crouching down as he waited for the tipoff. He couldn’t help but make eye contact with LeBron on the other side, whose expression was as blank as it usually when they happened to see each other during games. But Steph could see the fire in his eyes – anger of his own, determination. It was almost chilling to look at.

He tried to shake off his nerves. They were up 3-1, on their own home court. He didn’t need to be worried anymore. They’d win and he’d get to celebrate, and then he’d figure out whatever the hell was going on between him and LeBron.

He didn’t need to worry, because it was pretty much over already.

* * *

“Fuck,” Steph grunted as he missed yet another shot. He hadn’t been able to find a rhythm all night – only able to make a few threes and missing far more than usual. Nothing he tried seemed to work, and even when he tried to make shots after whistles LeBron or someone else would block them so he couldn’t even try to form any sort of rhythm.

It was almost embarrassing, being so clearly outmatched on his own turf. Klay was doing noticeably better, missing a larger-than-desired amount of shots but making enough to get himself a good amount of points. Steph had nearly started just banking on Klay doing well, because nothing he tried to help himself had been working and he didn’t know what else to do besides keep shooting.

At one point, LeBron was guarding him, swatting away the ball with ease on one of his shots. He scoffed at Steph as he ran back down the court to get ready to run his own offense, and Steph suddenly felt all of the anger his team had been feeling all in that one second. LeBron kicked him out, treated him like he was just some little bug he could flick off his shoulder at any time, talking down upon his team, and then Draymond’s suspension… Steph realized that he had the most reasons out of his whole team to be angry with the other man, and yet he was the one trying to make excuses because sometimes LeBron would shove his dick up his ass.

It was stupid – he had every reason to be pissed at LeBron, and it had taken this long for it all to build up enough for him to notice. But he wouldn’t snap, _couldn’t_ snap, because this was the Finals and he wasn’t going to let his anger get the best of him during such an important time. They only needed to win one game and then he could just be done with everything, stop being mad, and figure out what the hell he was going to do with the million problems he’d thrown himself into.

So he kept playing, ignoring the way the anger stayed stagnant in his stomach, boiling as he continued to take – and more often than not – miss shot after shot, still unable to find a rhythm. He ended up getting benched with two minutes left in the fourth quarter, sitting next to Klay again with hands on his cheeks as he glared down at the floor.

The stadium was surprisingly quiet, and had been ever since the Cavs began creating and widening a lead. The crowd was shocked, amazed that their 73-9 Warriors had just lost at home, and they hadn’t only lost – they’d been blown out. It was something that no one, players included, was used to, and it was definitely going to hurt them going into the next game. An away win for the Cavs against _this_ Warriors team would be a massive momentum boost, and Steph could see it already showing from the bounce in LeBron’s steps as he went to the bench himself only a short while after Steph had done the same. He swallowed nervously.

 _Don’t get in your own head. You’ve won plenty of away games. How else do you think you could’ve gotten this far?_ Steph wrung his hands together with nerves anyway despite his attempt at a mental pep talk, unable to pull his eyes away from LeBron, who never so much as even sent a fleeting glance his way, too focused on his own teammates and their little premature celebrations. It made the pit in his stomach, which was now just a combination of annoyance and sadness, twist tightly, and he gripped the sides of his seat hard enough for his knuckles to turn white as he kept watching.

He couldn’t help but remember the thoughts that had run through his mind throughout his first year in the league, when he’d first been disappointed by LeBron’s lack of attention towards him. He’d tell himself that the other man couldn’t give less of a fuck about him, and he was just desperate after one fuck that _obviously_ meant nothing to LeBron. Those thoughts never truly went away, apparently, because although they’d stopped when he’d forced himself to “forget” their college encounter – although he really just avoided thinking about it at all costs – they were coming back in full force now.

Steph knew he’d been stupid, knew he shouldn’t have kept talking shit to LeBron and acting cocky, but he couldn’t help it. The other man was trying to rile him up, trying to get him to start talking like that. Wanted Steph to get mouthy so he could put him in his place. But then he’d kicked Steph out like it was meaningless, and maybe it was, but even if it was Steph couldn’t understand it. Before game one, LeBron had let him stay over, even offered him some extra food. Why had their last time been so different?

Maybe it had been something he said; he’d struck a nerve a little too hard. But he’d spoken like that to LeBron before and gotten away with it. The insecurities kept raging on in his head, telling him that there was no other reason for what had happened – LeBron just didn’t care like he did. He didn’t want to believe it, was trying to hard to think of another reason, because he’d finally started accepting the feelings inside himself that were slowly forming for the other man and he didn’t want to be crushed just like he was years ago, but it was becoming harder and harder to do so.

As the game came to a close and the Warriors began walking sullenly back to the locker room, the fans watched them with disbelief on their faces, and the cheers were sparse. Klay put an arm over Steph’s slumped shoulders and pulled him in close, mumbling something that Steph didn’t listen to, obviously noticing the other man’s depressed aura.

He was in his own arena, surrounded by tons of fans who he knew loved him, walking out with his teammates, and his best friend was holding him and trying to comfort him as best as he could. And yet even with all the attention, Steph felt more alone than he’d ever felt before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is awful i didnt edit yet but im gonna go back and edit it when im not drowning in the shit i threw myself into
> 
> also my school year starts in like 2 days (fuck) and i have a couple jobs/club work and college applications n shit so idk how often im gonna be able to write but hopefully it wont take me this long again i shall try to be fast !!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINALLY FINISHED THIS CHAPTER OH MY GOD  
> yall might hate me but its got the most infuriating game AND smut so pls dont hate i promise it will end well at some point :(((

Steph pushed his mouthguard out of his mouth with his tongue and began chewing on it with more aggression than normal as the referee called him for his fourth foul of the night. He really wasn’t getting a break – his shots were _finally_ going in with some degree of consistency, and he felt much more on his game then he did in pretty much all of the other Finals games combined, but now his problem was the fact that he couldn’t get away with even the slightest of touches.

This one specifically upset him, because he was just fighting for a rebound, and yet _once again_ there was a whistle and he was given the blame for a foul that he didn’t think he deserved. Kerr was on the sidelines arguing against damn near every call, sharing Steph’s view on most of the fouls. He’d already had to sit in the first quarter after getting two fouls with five minutes left, which hadn’t helped his team – who were still trying to recover from the 8-0 run that the Cavs went on to start the game off – in the slightest.

His anger from game five still hadn’t completely disappeared, and he couldn’t help but feel it flare up in his gut every time he and LeBron made eye contact, but he was trying his best to ignore it. This was his night, he was finally on his game, and he wasn’t going to let his irritation over a simple block in an earlier game be what lost his rhythm.

Kevin Love took position for free throws, and Steph trudged behind the three point line as he kept chewing on his mouthguard, using the tic in an attempt to distract himself from the slowly building anger. He still had to play almost two full quarters, so he’d need to be extra careful about any contact for the rest of the game.

Klay looked over to him, concern etched into the lines on his forehead. “You good?” he mouthed, and Steph only gave a curt nod with hardened eyes in response. He was pissed, at the very least, that the one night he was actually in a rhythm and making shots the refs decided to call random shit on him as if they were trying to get him out of that rhythm. But he knew he couldn’t let it get to him – he just needed to focus on keeping his rhythm, keep making shots, and hopefully he could get the Cavs off their own rhythm, because right now they were absolutely killing it with the score being 65-46 in their favor.

Two free throws later, that was actually 67-46. A deficit of over twenty points. Fantastic.

Steph dribbled the ball with a little more force as he ran down the court after catching the inbound, his mouthguard sticking out and the irritation bubbling in his gut never ceasing at all.

* * *

The fifth foul was utter _bullshit._

Steph had run in for a steal from Kyrie Irving, snatching the ball cleanly and starting to sprint down the court when he heard a whistle and almost threw the ball down the court in anger. He smiled, laughing in pure amazement at the sheer stupidity of the call. “It was fuckin’ clean, assholes,” he mumbled under his breath as he tossed the ball to a referee with more force than necessary, glaring daggers at the back of Kyrie’s head as if it was his fault for the wrong call.

A hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him back slightly from where he’d been walking with stiff limbs, and he almost yanked a hand up to hit whoever was touching him right now. Luckily, he resisted the urges of his instincts, being grateful that he did when he spun around and saw that the person was Klay. The other man was looking at him without even trying to mask the worry, his free hand twitching at his side with nerves. “Steph, that’s five,” he said as if it wasn’t already obvious. “God, that’s such ass, man, they whack you all the time without shit happenin’ but you grab all ball and we get a fuckin’ whistle.” He let go of Steph’s arm, swinging his own around with nearly as much irritation as Steph was feeling.

Steph pushed his mouthguard out of his mouth again, chewing on it to calm both his bristling nerves and his anger. He just had to be careful, make a few shots, and they’d be back in this game. No big deal. He had nothing to worry about. It was the fourth quarter, anyway, and he knew that he could survive ten minutes more without doing anything stupid.

_Just get over the bullshit, make your shots, win the ring. Simple._

With that thought in mind, Steph gave Klay a silent nod, face looking slightly grim but still determined to win this and just be done already. He walked down the court and got into position, bending over in a defensive stance as he waited for the inbound. As he looked around, surveying where everyone was on the court, he couldn’t help but pause on LeBron, feeling a jolt of anxiety run up his spine when the other man locked eyes with him.

LeBron seemed to feel the exact opposite, cool and confident like nothing could stop him, because he was in complete control. And he proved that when he sent Steph the slightest of smirks, his lips just barely twitching upwards and his eyes turning into slits for only a second. But Steph noticed it, gritted his teeth and nearly screamed as all the anger flared up, his body just barely able to keep it all contained. “Fuck you,” he mouthed, mouthguard already out again as he bit down on it as hard as he could.

The mouthed words only made LeBron’s smile widen, and he nodded mockingly. He didn’t mouth anything back - didn’t need to, because the smile on his face was enough to make Steph tear his eyes away with a sneer across his own face now. He didn’t know why he did this, why he kept letting LeBron get into his head, mess with him and tear him down so easily. He should’ve just blocked him when he had the chance, because this was a fucking _mistake_ , and now he was facing the consequences.

Then the whistle blew, and he had to once again try to forget it all and just play the game.

He felt like a lot of the play time flew by him, hardly even noticeable as he ran back and forth without anything significant happening. A bruise from something he didn’t even remember happening - probably just another uncalled foul - was forming on the left side of his body in front of his ribs, aching distractingly enough for it to make shooting a bit more difficult. But he managed it, because he’d dealt with worse, and he knew that his team couldn’t lose him from any sort of injury or any other situation.

With about four and a half minutes left in the half Steph finally felt a hand on his side remove itself, giving him just the slightest bit of space to move. He didn’t even bother checking who was guarding him, simply ecstatic that he was actually given _opportunity_ and this might actually not end horribly. Without a second though he darted towards the rim, legs pumping as he slammed the call down on the ground for one last dribble before jumping towards the rim, ready for a layup that could finally spur his team to start acting like the 73 win team they were (because right now it seemed a lot different with how bad they were doing). The ball slid out of his hands gracefully, its path set as it sailed towards the net, nothing to stop it now.

Nothing except the large hand of one LeBron James slamming down on it, sending it flying into the crowd only feet away from him and Steph. The force of his push nearly caused Steph to lose his balance, and he landed with a grunt as he helplessly watched the ball fly away from him, away from the net. Then he could hear words behind him, a deep voice spouting something in his direction.

“You fuckin’ kidding me?” LeBron asked, laughing as he began turning away to get back in position. But his head stayed angled towards Steph, eyes locked on him with the most degrading smirks. “That ain’t shit right there, that just a bitch shot.” Then he turned away, apparently having said all he’d wanted to say and being done with the “conversation” immediately after.

Steph, however, was not done, at this point fuming as Klay grabbed him gently and pushed him away from LeBron before he could swing at the other man. He heard a whistle as Kerr called for a time out from the sidelines, Klay needing to pull him over to their huddle because his legs felt like they didn’t work. His ears were ringing and he felt like he was seeing red, like a bull looking for its flag - the flag in this case being LeBron, because right now there was nothing he wanted more than to slam into the other man and knock him as far away as possible.

He hardly listened as Kerr went over their next strategy, yanking his mouth guard out of his mouth to mess with it in his hands. Normally he would be careful because of all the saliva coating the plastic piece of equipment, but in his anger he didn’t even care, bending it downwards in an attempt to give his hands something to do that wasn’t socking LeBron.

They broke the huddle and Steph felt like he really hadn’t heard a word, walking back on the court without even feeling the ground beneath his feet. Luckily, only two seconds went by after the first whistle before another was called, and finally a foul was called in their favor - “ shooting foul on number 5, JR Smith!” Klay pumped excitedly at the call, pushing himself up off the ground and high fiving Steph, who felt just slightly better seeing his friend’s excitement. Maybe things could go a _little_ better now.

Klay made the first free throw to the surprise of not many - he was a career high percentage free throw shooter, after all, and Steph trusted him. The way the shot sank through the net so perfectly made Steph’s heart rate jump for a second, the small moment going well for them during this trainwreck of a game enough to excite him.

He missed the second, a rare occurrence, and Steph felt a pang of disappointment in his chest. _There goes any run we could’ve started._ Steph watched Tristan Thompson grab the rebound below the net, and then he saw LeBron only mere feet away, and suddenly he wasn’t thinking anymore, overwhelmed with anger again.

Tristan passed the ball to LeBron casually, letting the other man control the ball and the offense on the other side, but the ball took an extra bounce out of LeBron’s hand as Steph darted between the two men, smacking the ball away and hitting the LeBron’s arm a little bit in the process. He hardly noticed the leg fly out in front of him, and in retrospect he should’ve known it was just there so LeBron could catch his balance, but when he saw it he nearly tripped over it himself. Then there was a whistle.

“Foul on number 30, Stephen Curry.”

His vision turned completely red, because that was his sixth, and they just fucking ejected him in the _goddamn Finals_ , and of fucking _course_ it would be from a foul on LeBron of all people. He spun towards the ref, yanking his mouth guard out and throwing it, aiming for the scorer’s table but with his blurry and distracted vision missing wildly and ending up hitting someone in the crowd. Normally he’d immediately apologize, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, making aggressive hand motions at the referee who had called him for the foul and shouting obscenities.

“What the fuck, that’s such fucking bullshit!” He yelled, not faltering at all even when the same referee then blew his whistle again and put up the technical foul symbol, pointing at Steph’s chest. “Fuck you, man, out here fuckin’ rigging all this shit or something! That’s such bullshit!” He felt like he could hardly breathe, and his ears were ringing louder than ever. Someone grabbed him, pulling him away from the referee just a little too forcefully, but he couldn’t find it in himself to push them away.

Klay whispered into his ear, voice with a little sense of urgency. “Come on, Steph, they gotta take you off the court, or you’ll get fined.” The assistant coaches surrounded him, taking him out of Klay’s hold and trying to pull him off the floor. Someone tapped his arm, and he looked towards them, hardly even aware of what was happening anymore.

A man was waving his mouth guard in his face, an obviously annoyed expression on his face. “You just fuckin’ hit me with this!” Steph grabbed it out of his hand, biting his lip a little regretfully, because he might’ve been annoyed but that obviously wasn’t his intention. “Sorry, man,” he said sincerely, reaching out to shake the guy’s hand. Luckily, the man was forgiving, giving a smile of his own and accepting the handshake. Then Steph was pushed again, ushered off the court with a wry smile on his face as what he’d just done started to finally dawn upon him.

He felt his emotions start to die down, unable to erase the amused smile on his face after what he’d just done. The goodbye song was on full blast from the stadium’s speakers, and the crowd was absolutely ecstatic as they cheered seeing the star player of the league’s “villain” team get dragged off the court after practically throwing a tantrum. It was almost funny to watch them jeering at him, and he noticed the wide smiles on their faces as he passed them by walking to the locker room.

It was embarrassing, and he knew he was going to get at least an hour of yelling in his ear from Kerr about this as soon as the game would - mercifully - end. He couldn’t even complain about it though, because the whole situation was his fault, and he was childish and stupid and deserved to be yelled at.

He sank down onto a bench in the locker room, leaning heavily against the wall behind him, covering his head with his hands and wondering what he’d just done.

* * *

The game eventually did end 115-101 Cavs, and Steph moved his fingers away from one eye on his face so he could watch his teammates trudge in as unhappily as he did. No one spoke to him, and some even looked to be avoiding eye contact with him - they definitely knew about the verbal beatdown he was about to get from Kerr, and no one wanted to even be around someone who was getting _that._

Klay was the only one brave enough to sit down next to him, but even he was changing out of his uniform in silence. He looked over at Steph once, and Steph could see the pity in his eyes, but he still didn’t say a word, yanking off his sneakers to put on something more comfortable.

Then Kerr walked in, stone faced and matching the silence of the locker room, a scary aura around him. His eyes were trained on Steph, and Steph couldn’t help but look away as soon as they made eye contact. Kerr sat down on the other side of the room, arms crossed and facial expression unchanging.

Slowly the locker room began to clear out as men went into the showers or just straight back to their hotels. Klay sat with Steph for an extra few minutes just playing games on his phone before he finally backed out too, knowing Kerr wasn’t going to do anything until everyone was gone, and he gave Steph’s shoulder a squeeze and mouthed “good luck” before walking out.

As they heard the door to the locker room slam shut behind Klay, Kerr got up, walking towards Steph in a way that sent waves of uneasiness down the latter’s spine. He sat down on the bench across from the other man, resting his head on his hands as he looked at Steph with a strangely expectant expression on his face.

“Uh,” Steph started, fingers wrapping together nervously. _God, just fucking yell at me already, get it over with._ “I’m…sorry, uh, about that.”

Kerr raises an eyebrow. “You’re sorry?” He repeated, a chilling smile forming across his lips. “For what? For throwing a temper tantrum on the court that got you thrown off? For thinking that getting a bad steal when you had five fouls was a good idea? Or for influencing your team like this?” Steph wished he could shrink down to the size of only a microorganism, never to be seen again.

“Steph, you’re the fuckin’ leader of this team. You’ve been here the longest. They follow you, they look up to you, and you did _that._ What kind of leader pulls shit like that? What if they do the same thing now?” Kerr kept going, voice getting louder and louder with each word. “You can’t be doing that shit, Steph, you’re a grown fucking man. And yeah, I get it, some of the calls were crap, but that doesn’t mean you fucking _throw your mouth guard_ into the fucking audience!”

The yelling finally started, and Kerr went through every error Steph had made throughout the game, pointing out the stupidity behind each one and how he could easily have gotten suspended for tonight if it wasn’t for the fact that the next game would be the seventh in the series. Steph kept his eyes trained on the floor the whole time, knowing that everything Kerr shouted was completely true and he should be ashamed of himself, and he _was_ ashamed, because he knew better than anyone else how stupid he was back out on the court.

The steal itself had maybe just been more out of anger, because of course it’d be LeBron to get it, and he just wanted to get the other man to maybe make _one_ mistake to make him feel better during that trainwreck of a night, and even that had backfired. At one point, Kerr asked him if he had anything to say for himself, and he could only just sullenly shake his head, never once looking away from the ground like he was a child being reprimanded by his father.

“Fine,” Kerr sighed, and Steph noticed that a lot of the anger in his tone had been replaced by tiredness. He briefly wondered how long it had been since the yelling started. “Maybe you should stay and think about whatever the hell just went on tonight. Then you can explain it to me on our flight back tomorrow.” Kerr then got up, picking up his bag next to him and walking out without another word to Steph, leaving the other man completely alone in the room.

Steph didn’t know how long he sat there, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. He heard a few guys come out of the locker room, mumbling their goodnights and leaving without many words to him. He liked that better, in a way, because he didn’t think he was much in a talking mood at the moment. Maybe he’d just stay in the locker room until the custodians kicked him out, because at least here he was alone and he didn’t have to worry about talking to anyone.

Unfortunately, the “alone” part ended when he heard the door to the locker room swing open, and heavy footsteps became louder as someone came in. He cracked open one eye, assuming one of the guys had just forgotten something and was coming back to get it, but both his eyes widened as he saw who it really was.

“How you doin’, champ?” LeBron asked, giving him a cheeky - _infuriating_ \- grin. “You feelin’ better after crying out there? God, imagine, the one time you don’t get your damn way you throw a fuckin’ fit.” Steph sucked on the inside of his cheek, wanting to say something, anything, but no words coming out of his mouth. He didn’t even know what he could say - it really was like he just had a childish tantrum in front of millions of people.

“You’re fuckin’ pathetic.”

The three words stung far more than Steph liked, and he shut his eyes tightly as threatening tears pricked at the edges for a second. It had hurt hearing the crowd, and it had hurt hearing Kerr say it, but hearing LeBron say it was like someone had taken a knife to the open wounds everyone else had made and shoved it inside, moving it around in his body and making him scream.

He forced his eyes open to glare at LeBron, lips curling into a snarl. “Fuck you,” he forced out, hating the way the words stumbled over his tongue as if he’d never spoken before.

“Yeah,” LeBron responded, expression darkening. “ _I’m_ the problem. Not you, the one who threw a fucking tantrum, you fuckin’-”

“Fuck you,” Steph repeated, not letting LeBron finish. He was so fucking _done_ with everything, done with the way LeBron walked all over him, insulted him, acted like he was worthless. “Fuck you, all you fuckin’ do is tear me down, you’re just fuckin’ using me to win, you’re a piece of shit.”

That got LeBron to laugh, but it wasn’t something comforting. Steph froze as LeBron began walking closer, his expression blank. Terrifying. “I’m usin’ you now, bitch? You think I need to fuck you up here to beat your ass on the court?” He kept closing the distance, and Steph desperately wished he could just fall through the wall and get away, far away, because right now he wanted to be anywhere else. “That’s your fucking excuse? All because you got a fuckin’ bad call. Pathetic little bitch.”

LeBron put a hand down on his shoulder with little sense of gentleness. Steph sucked in a breath as he was pushed against the wall, feeling far more nervous than he liked with the way the man looked down upon him as if he was just a piece of prey, wishing he hadn’t said anything now. “Pull your pants down. I’m gonna teach you that you ain’t always gonna get what you want.”

Steph did as he was told, breaths uneven as he yanked downwards on his shorts - he hadn’t even bothered changing out of his uniform yet - and let them fall to his ankles. He noticed that LeBron hadn’t changed yet either, the 23 on his chest large and threatening just like himself.

He could hardly focus when LeBron pulled his own shorts down, revealing his already hard dick that made Steph’s own twitch with a combination of excitement and anxiety. LeBron looked ready to just go in, and Steph grabbed his arm quickly before he could do anything. “Shouldn’t…shouldn’t you use oil or something?” He asked, feeling breathless just looking at the other man. 

LeBron cocked his head at him, another scary smile on his face. “Nah, you can take it,” he replied, and Steph felt the hairs on his arms stand up. “‘Sides, I just said you won’t get everything you want, right?” The words made his mouth dry, and he could only nod, helpless at the other man’s complete disposal. He really wished he’d just kept his mouth shut, because he’d made LeBron more powerful than ever, and now he was facing the consequences.

The nod made LeBron’s smile only widen, and then he pulled Steph upwards a little for a better angle before pushing himself inside. Steph nearly screamed at the immediate pain, grabbing onto LeBron’s jersey and gripping the fabric so tightly it turned his knuckles white. He held his breath until LeBron was fully inside, eyes shut as hard as they could be in order to make sure no tears escaped.

When he was fully in, LeBron took his hand off Steph’s shoulder and wrapped both arms around his waist, holding him up (which definitely helped, because Steph felt like his legs were going to give out any second) tightly. “You okay now?” He asked, voice deep and raspy with arousal. Before Steph could respond, he started pushing in, beginning at a fast rhythm. Steph let out a muffled noise in response, left incoherent from the man’s sudden quick start.

He wanted to reach down and stroke himself, feeling his own body demanding attention, but when he started moving his hand away from LeBron’s shirt one hand on his waist quickly darted over to swat it back into place. “Nope,” LeBron mumbled, continuing to thrust at an even pace. “None of that, you just keep hangin’ onto me.”

Steph nodded, breathing heavily and burying his face into the other man’s jersey as he continued thrusting in as hard as possible. “Fuck,” he gasped out after one thrust, saliva dripping down his chin and a tear slipping from his eye. His body felt like it was on fire, screaming for some sort of attention, craving satisfaction. “Please, please let me touch myself, fuck, Bron,” he sputtered, voice breaking a few times, but he was too invested to even be embarrassed.

LeBron only laughed, grabbing his wet chin and pulling his head up to make eye contact again. Steph’s eyes were glazed over with tears, his mouth hanging open as the other man drank in how he looked. “Nah,” LeBron answered simply, and then the hands around his waist and face grabbed his arms and pressed them against the wall behind him. His shaky legs were screaming, begging for him to go down, and he knew they couldn’t hold him up for much longer, but he couldn’t - he wouldn’t give LeBron the satisfaction of seeing him collapse at his feet. He wasn’t going to go that low (yet, at least).

Then LeBron leaned over, clamping his teeth down on Steph’s neck hard enough to leave a mark. He left a bruising kiss, and Steph couldn’t help but let out a groan at the feeling of the teeth digging into his skin. “Fuck, fuck,” he grunted, unsure of whether or not he could even recall any other words. He needed to touch himself, needed to do something, because one quick glance down saw his dick standing at attention, waiting eagerly for what it craved.

But instead, LeBron moved his lips up Steph’s neck until he reached his ear, leaving a wet trail in his wake. “Tell me who you are, bitch,” he whispered, voice rough and almost arousing on its own.

His hands grabbed Steph’s chin again, forcing him to make eye contact once more, and Steph could see the lust all over his face. “I,” he gasped out, fighting to keep his eyes open. “I’m yours, _fuck_ , I’m your bitch.” His body tensed up then, clenching around LeBron’s dick tightly.

“That’s right,” LeBron said through a smile of gritted teeth, and then he let out a long, loud sigh as he released inside of Steph. Steph wanted to follow him over the edge, but his neglected dick couldn’t, still begging to be noticed. He thought maybe LeBron would let him now, but instead, when he’d decided he was finished with his release, the older man just pulled out, holding Steph’s arms and dropping him back down on the chair (which hurt a _lot_ more than Steph was willing to admit), before using his hands to hold himself up against the wall as he caught his breath.

Steph looked up at him, confused, blinking when some of LeBron’s sweat dripped onto his face. “What the fuck?” He asked, the words ragged but pressing. “You ain’t gonna give me shit?”

LeBron grabbed his shorts off the floor, pulling them up way too casually. “I told you,” he said, not even looking at Steph anymore. “You ain’t always gonna get what you fuckin’ want.” Steph felt an angry redness creep onto his face, because he’d really dealt with all this man’s bullshit for nothing. LeBron was only bothering with him to satisfy himself.

Steph adjusted his position on the chair, wincing and regretting it when a familiar ache reared its ugly head. LeBron picked up Steph’s discarded clothes off the ground and tossed them to him nonchalantly, either ignoring or somehow not noticing the way Steph looked legitimately upset. “Well, I’ll see you for game seven. Better not crack under pressure, ‘cause we gonna rip y’all in half otherwise.” The words were dark and serious, meant to be threatening, but Steph suddenly felt numb, too disappointed to even care.

And then he made a decision on the spot, something he might regret later but couldn’t find it in himself to care about right now.

“I think we should stop this.”

LeBron scoffed. “Like you could fuckin’ resist.” He made to leave, but Steph spoke again, making the other man pause in his steps.

“No, listen, I’m fuckin’ serious,” he said, looking down at the ground but holding a serious, sincere expression. “I don’t know what your fuckin’ game is, but I’m losing my goddamn mind with all this shit. Call me weak, I don’t care, but I ain’t gonna be hurt anymore. I’m not doin’ this anymore.” 

LeBron was staring at him, not saying a word, and Steph couldn’t read his expression at all, which only made him feel more uneasy inside. Worried that the other man might speak and fight him on the decision, he forced himself to get to his feet and walk into the shower area, hoping that he could be left alone in there.

He showered quickly, a strange numb feeling all over his body the whole time, and even as warm water streamed down on his head he felt cold. When he walked out, dressed in his causal clothes, he almost expected LeBron to be there, waiting to laugh at him and tell him to get down on his fucking knees. Honestly, he’d probably listen, because no matter what he said he didn’t think he could resist the other man. But, maybe luckily, maybe unfortunately, he didn’t have to make that decision.

LeBron was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we love characters acknowledging when things are not good for them and getting away from those things (maybe not permanently) in order to prioritize their own mental/physical health!! so dont hurt me :(
> 
> also ^^ this is @ tessa in after
> 
> its been 2 weeks and IM ALREADY GONNA FAIL AP GOV LETS FUCKING GO  
> ill try to finish this book fast bc i really wanna start the third the third will be much fluffier and happier than this


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suck sskfdsfjsdlf but thats not surprising anymore im gonna be sad forever
> 
> anyway. heres the end that i just barely managed to get out before the new year bc i SUCK. unedited bc im sad and cant do anything and this took seven hours of me writing nonstop and i no longer have the energy to do anything but cry

At four in the morning on a hot Saturday, one day before game seven of the 2016 NBA Finals, Steph heard a knock on his door.

When he opened it, he was immediately engulfed in a hug from Klay, who hadn’t even given him a chance to speak. He wrapped his arms around his best friend as tight as he could, burying his face into Klay’s neck and shutting his eyes tightly. Klay rubbed circles on his back gently, whispering words of comfort and encouragement as he had to lead Steph into his own house.

They went to Steph’s room silently, the only words they’d exchanged with each other that day through a phone call - Steph telling Klay he didn’t know what he’d done, and Klay saying he’d be right over so they could talk about it. There had been no jokes, because Klay had been already been able to tell from Steph’s demeanor on the plane ride back to Oakland that something was wrong, and it was serious.

When their flight had landed, Steph hadn’t spoken to anyone, besides a mumbled apology to Kerr again for his outburst, and had driven home without looking back for a second. He’d planned on just taking a quick shower and then sleeping for hopefully the rest of eternity, but as soon as he’d fallen into bed his thoughts began churning, spinning around in his head like a tornado that wouldn’t let up.

He’d dealt with it for hours, unable to just shut his brain off and go to sleep, until finally, at three in the morning the next day, he called Klay. His best friend was apparently up, wide awake, having pulled an all nighter himself to play some new game he’d gotten (Steph didn’t bother saying anything about them needing sleep during the Finals because clearly he wasn’t getting any sleep either). Luckily, he could tell from the way Steph’s voice sounded - broken and exhausted beyond belief - that he needed someone, and had dropped his game to come right over.

That had led to their current situation, and Steph dimmed the lights in his bedroom to their lowest setting as Klay slid into his bed. He walked back over timidly, hesitating when Klay reached a hand out to pull him in. “It’s your bed, man,” Klay pointed out, and Steph flushed a little but nodded, taking the hand and allowing Klay to pull him in and tangle their limbs.

“You remember the first time we did this?”

Steph nodded against Klay’s chest. The first time they’d just laid together like this was back in 2013, after they’d lost in game six to the Spurs. No one on the team had been happy, because no one was ever happy when their first playoff run (and the team’s first run in _years)_ ended in a defeat in the second round, and Klay had driven an emotionally and physically exhausted Steph back to his house. They’d claimed that they’d just play Klay’s video games all night until they passed out, hoping the fun of the games would distract them from the painful bruise that came from losing, but their game time quickly turned into comfort cuddles when Steph felt the first tears roll down his cheeks.

After that, it had almost become a regular thing, and they’d done it a few more times after any particularly rough games, like their loss in 2014, and Steph had always been grateful for it. It made him remember that he had someone who was willing to comfort him, and was willing to, even platonically, give him the attention and affection he craved when he needed it most. But then it stopped for a while, and neither of them really knew why - maybe it was because they’d finally started winning. They’d become the champions after their loss in 2014, and then they’d went on to have the greatest regular season record in league history, so there really weren’t many major losses to be sad over.

Now, though, they hadn’t lost - yet, Steph reminded himself, because somehow they’d managed to throw themselves into a game seven situation when they’d only needed one win, and anything could happen now - but it still hurt the same. He nuzzled his face into Klay’s chest, refusing to cry, afraid to talk out of fear that his voice would break and the dams behind his eyes would be soon to follow.

But Klay knew him, and knew what he needed, and what he needed right now was to talk, so he made him do so anyway. “Can you tell me what happened?” He asked, voice gentle, the teasing tone it usually held absent. “You been sad since we got to the plane. And, like, worse than you was in the locker room. Please tell me.”

Steph took in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut to push back the oncoming tears before he tried to speak. “I…Bron came,” he started letting the words out like they were just air and hardly giving any sound with them, but Klay understood. He nodded wordlessly, waiting for Steph to finish. “I told him I couldn’t do it, ‘cause this’s all been getting in my head and that was why I got so upset during the game, because it was _him_. I couldn’t handle it, and I’m just a weak bitch, I know, but I don’t fucking care, ‘cause-”

He didn’t realize how messed up his voice was starting to sound until Klay stopped him, squeezing his shoulder a little tight to get his attention. “Hey, you ain’t weak for takin’ care of yourself first,” he said, moving his other hand down to Steph’s back and drawing circles. “You shouldn’t let him hurt you just to get his dick in your ass every so often.” Steph hated the way he blushed at the statement - somehow he was okay with actually _having_ LeBron’s dick in his ass, but simply talking about it would fluster him.

“I’m happy you stood up for yourself, ‘kay?” Klay continued, the sincerity in his voice too obvious to ignore. “I saw how you been hurting lately, man, you needed to get outta that.” Steph turned his head to look up at Klay’s chin, tightening his grip around his best friend’s waist and immediately feeling a similar tightening of Klay’s arms around his own.

Klay moved one hand up, bringing it to Steph’s chin and gently pulling it upwards a little so they could make eye contact. “You did the right thing, Steph,” he said, voice soft and serious. Steph pushed his head down again, nuzzling it into the crook of Klay’s neck and shutting his eyes. He knew Klay was probably right, if the relief he’d felt for hours after telling LeBron to basically fuck off (before the regret settled in, of course) had anything to say about it, but it was still hard to accept.

He wanted LeBron to hold him like Klay was, wanted to take in that musky scent he’d grown so used to over the past week, wanted to let LeBron take control of him again and just do whatever he pleases. But he also didn’t want to keep hurting, because it was just tearing him apart and he knew any more of it would probably ruin him completely.

A slowly building headache distracted him from his thoughts, and he groaned, pressing into Klay’s body even more. “You wanna try ‘n sleep?” Klay asked, and Steph could already hear the tiredness in his voice. He felt his own limbs become heavier in response, reminding him that he desperately needed sleep - he had been up all night, after all, and so had Klay, and they had a game tomorrow so getting rest was _probably_ important.

He nodded, the stubble on his chin rubbing against the fabric of Klay’s shirt and tickling him a little. Klay’s arm moved down his back, fingers drawing deep circles that made Steph feel his whole body loosen up from. “Thank you,” he whispered, hating how vulnerable he sounded - and how vulnerable he actually _was_ \- but still sincere. Klay hummed, continuing to draw with gentle fingers all over his back and remove any tenseness.

The warmth of Klay’s body and the soft touches he was providing for Steph’s were enough to start pulling him away from consciousness as he shut his eyes and let out a content sigh. He let Klay tangle their legs, the warmth spreading throughout his entire body and making him finally feel safe and comfortable after so much time hurting.

He didn’t know what was going to happen next, but in the moment, everything was okay, and Steph was finally able to fall asleep peacefully for the first time in a while.

* * *

The atmosphere of Oracle Arena on the night of Game 7 of the 2016 NBA Finals was intense. Fans were clad in the bright yellow color of their team, standing up in their seats and cheering before the game had even begun. They’d been thrust into this situation without any warning, going from a hardly known joke of a fanbase only two years ago to the most hated fans in the league before they even had time to realize and accept that their team had actually won a championship.

Sometimes, Steph felt bad about it - he knew he’d definitely gained a ton of “bandwagons” after his first championship, but the original fans who had been there from the beginning were being grouped in with those bandwagoners and getting shamed when they were the people he was the most grateful for. He didn’t know if he would’ve been able to get nearly as far as he did with empty stands, alone and not hearing anything even when he made a shot. Even the thought of that pure quiet gave him a chill.

Now, though, the fans were the exact opposite of that nightmarish silence - they were screaming so loud he could hear them from the locker room, chanting in unison the names of each player on their roster in number order. Steph couldn’t help but smile, eternally grateful that he’d have these fans with him for what was hopefully going to be their epic closeout to a great Finals.

He walked through the tunnel, head held high, his heart already pounding a little faster than usual in his chest. Tonight would be the night it all ended. He just hoped that it, at the very least, could end the right way.

Twenty minutes later he was taking shots next to Klay, hands shaking a little with nerves he couldn’t push back. He grinned when his shot went through the net, a picture perfect Steph Curry three, and Klay patted him on the back. “A’ight, now you just gotta go that during the game,” he said, and Steph nodded. If he could just be himself, the two-time MVP in the runnings for greatest shooter of all time, they’d have this win in the bag. He just needed to calm down and be himself. That was it.

Then the Cavaliers walked out of their locker room, with LeBron, of course, leading the pack out onto the court. They were met with a chorus of angry boos from the fans, but managed to keep straight faces and pay the crowd no mind. Steph froze, watching intently as LeBron grabbed a ball and began taking shots on the other end of the court without a shred of hesitation or a look in Steph’s direction. He was a little grateful to be ignored, really - eye contact probably would’ve killed him on the spot.

Every shot LeBron took went in with ease, no matter where he was standing on the court. Steph couldn’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by every movement the older man made. No wonder he was in the running for the greatest player ever. Everything he did was just...incredible.

Klay shook Steph’s shoulder gently, snapping him out of the trance. “You good?” Klay asked, voice a little softer than usual. Steph could see his eyes dart away from Steph for a second and towards the other side of the court, probably locked on LeBron just as his own were. He bounced his own ball once to ground himself and nodded, taking a deep breath. The weight on his shoulders, the strain on his mind, it should’ve been gone - he told LeBron he was done, after all. But he couldn’t fully escape the thoughts of the older player, couldn’t stop himself from looking back once more.

LeBron sank a shot from the logo, high fiving Kyrie next to him with a smile on his face. In that moment, he finally looked up towards the other end of the court, and his eyes locked on Steph’s. They stood there, staring at each other from other ends, completely frozen, until LeBron finally gave him a curt nod. Then he turned around as if nothing had happened and continued to shoot.

Steph blinked once, twice, before shaking his head and shutting his eyes tightly for a few seconds before opening them up and turning back to his own side of the court. He saw the clock’s countdown hit fifteen minutes, going down at a slow rhythm his heartbeats were way ahead of. He took another breath, letting his next shot fly.

It went in, beautiful, flawless, everything he wanted. He looked around at his own team, watching everyone take their own shots, mouths set in lines and eyes steely under the pressure they were already feeling. This was his team, his arena, his game. He could do this.

Tonight would be the end of it all.

* * *

Steph practically collapsed down on the locker room bench at halftime, head covered in sweat both from playing and from the intense pressure. They managed to secure a seven point lead to greet the second half with, and Kerr began his speech to keep their morale up before they’d all even found seats. Klay sat next to Steph with his eyes locked solely on their coach and face twisted in concentration, but he rested a hand on Steph’s thigh gently. Steph put his own hand on top, allowing Klay’s natural warmth two areas to transfer over to Steph’s body.

“We gotta just keep goin’ like this, okay?” Kerr said, clapping his hands together to catch everyone’s attention. “If we keep this up, we can pull this off. You’re a great team and I don’t want to see you go home disappointed. Let’s pull this win out and end this how it should be ended.” There were a few shouts of agreement around the room, and Klay slapped Steph’s thigh twice before flipping his hand over to grab the latter’s.

They made eye contact, nodding at each other in affirmation - they could do this. They _would_ do this. The game wasn’t over yet.

Another intense quarter only served to prove that unspoken statement true, and soon enough the score was within one point after LeBron made three free throws. Steph felt his hands shake with irritation as he ran down the court, still unable to get himself into a rhythm and with only one shot to his name in the fourth quarter. Draymond was, luckily, dragging him and the rest of the team though, with a performance that was definitely going to bag him a Finals MVP award if they could just pull through with him. The Cavs certainly weren’t making that easy, though, and Steph knew he needed to at least find the smallest bit of rhythm if they wanted any success at all.

So he tried to be himself, forcing up confidence within him that was so clearly feigned as he kept his lips set in a straight line with the ball in his hands. And, as himself, he threw a behind the back pass to Klay in the hopes that Klay would make the shot afterwards and they could finally get something accomplished.

When he turned back, however, he watched the ball go nowhere near Klay, his pass wildly misaimed as it flew out of bounds. Klay raised his hands and threw them back down in annoyance, glaring at Steph with more harshness than usual before turning to trudge back to the other end of the court as the referees blew the whistle. Steph felt like his cheeks were aflame with embarrassment - although the laughter from the crowd was nothing compared to what he’d received from Cleveland’s crowd three days ago.

Groaning, Steph forced his mind to stop focusing on game six and pay attention to the game he was currently in, only to see LeBron hit a three to bring the Cavs up by two. “Fuck,” he mumbled, running back yet again. Draymond continued to control the game for the Warriors, assisting Klay on a layup to tie the game 89-89 with four and a half minutes to go. Suddenly, the atmosphere’s intensity seemed to increase exponentially, and Steph was nearly finding it hard to breathe.

Everything seemed to blur and mesh around him, his ears ringing as he took a three off a pass from Draymond only to watch it clank off the rim. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t see anything, and the pressure was making his skin crawl as he ran back and forth. It definitely wasn’t just him feeling the effects, though - as the game continued, neither team could take the lead, flying back and forth in a flurry of passes and shots that always would just barely miss their mark.

Steph could hardly keep track of everything going on, breathing heavy as he once again turned to run down the court. Andre blocked a layup from LeBron and Draymond grabbed the rebound, earning loud screams from the crowd that energized the whole team a little bit. They ran back to their side for what had to have been the thousandth time that night, only for their play to end in yet another missed three off the rim by Andre.

The ball flew back towards where Steph was on the court, and he broke into a run to go grab the rebound and hopefully get another chance to finally get a lead. As he ran, though, he noticed LeBron to his left doing the same thing, and the older man, larger and faster than him, flew into the air and grabbed the ball while it was still out of Steph’s reach. Steph couldn’t stop fast enough and collided with the larger man, falling onto the floor with him in a heap and letting out a grunt.

His ears were ringing again as he sat up, hardly even hearing the announcements of the fourth foul to his name and the timeout over the loudspeakers. Andre walked over and grabbed his right hand to pull him up, but he nearly couldn’t get off the ground when a warm touch surrounded his left hand as well.

LeBron pulled Steph up with him as he was helped by his own teammate, turning towards the younger man as soon as they were on their feet and pulling him close for just a little too long for it to be unintentional. His hand was still tightly gripping Steph’s and he looked down at him with an unreadable expression, mouth opening and closing once before he sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, the words hardly audible and yet crystal clear at the same time. Steph froze, mouth hanging open. LeBron, without ever once breaking his blank face, smacked Steph’s ass once with his free hand and gave the hand in his grip another squeeze before letting go altogether, walking away as if nothing had happened at all and leaving Steph walking forwards almost in a daze with his hand still up.

He felt his legs moving on their own and even reached out to high five whoever was near him, mind not registering who it was, as he chewed on his mouthguard like it was all he remembered how to do. What the hell was he supposed to do after _that?_ He felt someone touch his bare arm gently, and looked over to see Klay, whose annoyance from earlier had been replaced with confusion and concern. “What’d he say?” Klay asked, glaring at LeBron’s back as the other player walked to his bench.

“Nothin’,” Steph replied, sounding and feeling distant, his own eyes drawn reluctantly towards the Cavs bench. Klay looked back at him, lips downturned and eyes narrowed in disbelief. “C’mon, let’s just win this. I’ll tell you later.” Steph turned away, walking purposefully back to his own bench. He heard Klay jog to catch up with him until they were walking together in stride, united despite it all. As they reached the bench and Kerr immediately began going through their next plays, though, he couldn’t stop himself from turning back towards LeBron, the older player’s back towards him as he listened intently to whatever Tyronn Lue was saying.

It felt like a small butterfly had come back after years of waiting, perching atop Steph’s heart, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could still have a little hope left.

He couldn’t dwell on it long, though, because the timeout was over seconds later and he was being pulled back onto the court and tossed into the intense fray once again. The next shot for the Warriors was yet another miss, the timeout unable to kill any momentum because there was none to start with.

Seconds later Kyrie had run in and taken a jump shot, that too clanking off the rim and into Andre’s hands. He passed it to Steph and they both sprinted down the floor, hoping they could finally end the streak and just ice the game already. At the last second, Steph sent a bounce pass back to Andre, most of the Cavaliers too surprised to be able to react, and Steph thought it might really be over as the older man jumped and performed a perfect layup, something they’d all practiced for years, something that just couldn’t fail.

Until, like a bird swooping out of the fucking sky to snatch its prey away, LeBron jumped into the air and slammed the ball against the backboard, sending it flying away from the rim and destroying what was quite possibly the Warriors’ greatest chance to get any momentum. Steph could nearly feel the ground shake beneath him at the sheer power and force behind the block, freezing in place and staring in pure amazement for a second.

The crowd had gone silent in shock just as he had, and he could hear the footsteps of the Cavaliers as they ran back down the court, the Warriors following behind in panic. They hardly manage to catch up and keep LeBron from making a jumper, the point drought continuing. Draymond grabbed LeBron’s rebound and within ten seconds the ball had ended up back in Steph’s hands. He let off another three, grinding his teeth against his mouthguard when that too missed its mark.

The Cavs called a timeout with a minute of game time left, hoping to just create some sort of play and finally end the scoreless streak. Steph stood next to Klay, listening to Kerr intently as he went through defensive schemes and plays to keep the Cavs from doing exactly that. The timeout was over faster than he’d expected, and he went back onto the court feeling off and slightly anxious, some strange uncomfortable feeling looming over his shoulder. He blinked twice and shook his head, trying to brush it off.

He heard the whistle, and within seconds the ball was in Kyrie’s hands. He stood on top of the key, dribbling with a blank face similar to LeBron’s. Steph followed his man, feeling a part of him tense up when they managed to get him to be Kyrie’s primary defender. He got into a good position, crouching low and watching the opposing point guard with laser focused vision. He wouldn’t let anything past him.

Kyrie continued dribbling, moving around and trying to shake Steph off just the smallest amount, but Steph was staying on him like it was his life’s mission - and, in a way, it really was. But he misstep slightly, gave Kyrie the tiniest bit of space for a second and the other man instantly went into his shooting motion. Steph lifted a hand to block but he was just too late for a good contest, and the shot flew. He spun around to watch, not even moving from where he stood.

The shot was perfect, sinking into the net in a way that made all of Steph’s own amazing shots that season look shameful. He put his hands down in defeat, swinging them at his sides in a mixture of practically every negative emotion known to man, trying to block out the screams of the crowd in reaction to the play that was somehow combatting LeBron’s insane block for best moment of the night.

They inbounded the ball quickly, and Steph ran back down the court, trying to put himself back into the game. He couldn’t, though, feeling so out of it, the hairs on his arms still standing up since he’d watched the shot go in. The ball ended up in his hands and he let off another three, but he was so out of rhythm it hardly even hit the rim and they ended up running back again down three with thirty seconds left on the clock.

Andre managed to block Kyrie’s layup attempt and they fouled when he caught his own rebound, only for Draymond to end up causing a shooting foul on LeBron and knocking him hard to the ground. Steph paused for a second, staring in concern, knowing that tonight they were enemies but still unable to tear his eyes away. LeBron got up slow, but he could stand, shaking his whole body to bring himself back completely. The Cavs called a timeout, and the talks at the benches were anxious and quick. LeBron missed his first free throw, a good sign, but made the second, and the Warriors were down four with eleven seconds left in the most crucial game of their lives.

Kerr called his last timeout, gathering them together. His mouth was set in a straight line, face twisted with determination but eyes betraying him and giving away his exhaustion. “This is our last chance, boys,” he said, stating the obvious as if just to remind them all. “We need a three, and then we’ll foul. That’s our only chance.” He drew up a play with, of course, Steph being the one to take the shot at the end. Steph nodded along, determined to prove that he could do this, they could trust him, and there was nothing to worry about. He _had_ to.

Klay came over and high fived him as they walked back onto the court, his hand tense with anticipation. “You sure you’re good with this?” He asked, and Steph fought a scowl. He’d really gotten even Klay to doubt him now. Sighing, he nodded, and Klay copied his silent gesture. “Hope it goes well, then. I’ll see you on the other side.” He walked away, getting into his position on the court, and Steph did the same, feeling his hands shake a little.

It was just one shot. He’d done it countless times before.

The Cavs had a foul to give and used it, and the Warriors ended up spread out and ready with seven seconds left. The ball got to Steph and he let go of his shot, putting every ounce of energy and hope he had left in his battered and exhausted body into it, and watched it fly, the crowd’s screams muted as they waited in terrified anticipation.

The ball just barely missed its mark, flying off and into the hands of Speights who let off one last desperate attempt as the buzzer sounded and signalled the end. Steph froze, unable to take off the disbelieving smile on his face as he looked at the scoreboard. _93-89 Cavs._ They’d lost. The Cavaliers had won the Finals. He looked towards LeBron, saw him for only a second as he dropped to his knees with tears in his eyes before getting surrounded by eager and ecstatic reporters and cameramen. Steph blinked, shaking his head.

It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> book 3 is a thing and ive got a short draft but idk when thats coming. hopefully itll be done faster than this chapter was done. this was a mess.


End file.
